


The Time for Wolves is Nigh

by Iris_Quincy_Rosewood



Series: The Time for Wolves is Nigh [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fade to black love scenes, Fluffy with a side of angst please, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon and Sansa are Cousins, Jonsa endgame, POV Arya Stark, POV Jon Snow, POV Sansa Stark, POV Third Person, Sansa execution fic, Sansa-centric, Self-Indulgent, Some aspects of the show's ending are included, This is basically a graphic Disney film, Villan!Dany, other aspects are NOT, pol!Jon depending on how you look at it, slight ooc for Jon and Sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-04-11 17:02:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19113994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iris_Quincy_Rosewood/pseuds/Iris_Quincy_Rosewood
Summary: What have I become, to scorn myself for one sin, and yet desire another one so heavily?He could imagine them lounging under a tree far away from their enemies, the sun flickering through the leaves and casting uneven shapes across their blissful faces, turning her hair red and gold. Ghost was laying by their feet as she sang for them, her hand carding through his hair as he drifted off with his head in her lap.Despite it being nothing more than a fantasy, he would carry it next to his heart like a cherished memory.-The realm has been beaten, battered, and broken. The common people of King's Landing have shuttered their windows and locked their doors, but it did little to shield them from a Mad King, a Drunkard, a Worm King, a Boy King guided by his vile mother, and now, they have been decimated by Dragonfire.The Noble Folk have fared no better, and with the burning of their capitol, Westeros as a whole has had enough. Their common enemies will be driven out, or they'll die fighting them.(A reimagining of the end to GoT)Rating is for violence and mature language.





	1. Her Broken Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo, this is the rewritten version of The Breaker of Chains... Just Not Mine. I'm quite disappointed with myself that I posted that without truly giving it the time and love it deserved. Trust me, I'll be putting in the time and effort now that I can afford it without finals tied to my back.
> 
> So, I've made some changes to the story, but for people who read TBC...JNM it will still have similar components. I'd give this chapter a quick skim if you've already read the other chapters :D

She slept fitfully, as she almost always did, tossing and turning under the furs. Her dreams were usually plagued with the faces of her captors, Ceresi and Joffrey standing over her while blade shaped welts would suddenly rise up on her cream skin. When it was her other captor haunting her sleep… Well, the wounds were still there when she woke, just turned to scars now.

Tonight, it wasn’t a foe that kept her from sleep, neither was it a friend, for he was so much more _and_ less than that. _Jon_ . He hadn't been gone even a single day, yet she still ached to know that each passing moment brought him closer to King’s Landing, and further away from her. There was so much she’d had to say to him, and hardly any words passed between them at all. Now he was gone.

The first day he had gotten back after what felt like an eternity, she had wanted nothing more than to drag him inside in front of the hearth in her solar with Arya and Bran, she wanted to lock them all in there, where the ghosts of their family could visit with them too. It was what she’d imagined for the brief moment when her eyes had closed in his embrace, then she remembered who waited for her on the other side of the courtyard. The warmth that emanated from him was wrenched from her all too quickly, and then his Dragon Queen was right before her.

That was what plagued her sleep now, dragons and their queen mother. What had she done? How could she have betrayed Jon’s trust in her, only to let him leave anyway with the woman she was trying to protect him from? She’d tried, but it hadn’t been good enough. _If he dies…_ A soft whimper escaped her throat as she wrenched herself out of bed, feet meeting frozen stone. No, she wouldn’t even consider the possibility. Jon knew how to protect himself, even if she thought he was being a fool.

Arya had gone as well, disappeared without so much as a farewell. As had Sandor, now that she thought about it. It had almost seemed as though her younger sister’s cold shell had started to thaw, but the coldness with which she had left disproved that. She hoped, senselessly, that Jon and Arya would somehow run in to each other, and be able to protect one another.

Coming up to her window, she watched as the snow blew past. _Snow_. Sighing, she pressed her forehead to the pane, her breath fogging the glass.   _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._  But the pack was separated. Split in two. Jon and Arya weren’t even together, so truly the pack was completely split. _Jon will want to stay with his Queen, they’re both Targaryens, after_ _all_.

The ache in her heart curled like a flame, blue and melancholic. How had Jon, the man who had once wanted nothing more than to be a Stark, turned away from them so remorselessly? Dragons are stronger than direwolves, it’s true, but dragons seek to destroy, direwolves are a pack, they’re for life. Jon was part of the pack, and yet it felt like he’d cut away his ties without looking back.

It had felt final when he rode out of Winterfell mere hours earlier, and the man who had left for Dragonstone all those moons ago was nothing like the man who hadn’t even spared her a glance before leaving. He’d sent Ghost away as well, and this, despite all the other hurts, seemed to pierce her heart. She hadn’t gone to see him off, not like before, so she didn’t witness Ghost’s dismissal. However, she had heard from a confused Tormund that Jon had left Ghost in his care.

“Why not leave him here with me? Like last time?” She had tried to keep the brokenness from her voice, to no avail. Tormund had clapped her on the shoulder, something akin to sympathy in his eyes. He pursed his chapped lips, shrugged, and was gone without a word. She had retired to her chambers after the last wilding passed through the gates, despite it only being late morning, and hadn’t come out since.  

The sound of a scuffle in the halls rattled Sansa out of her desolate thoughts. Turning from the window, she realized that tears had escaped her eyes. Wiping them away, she stalked over to her dressing robe, incensed by the weakness in her heart brought on by yet another man. She pulled on the robe before making her way through her solar, shivering as she got further away from the fire in her chambers.

Unlocking the door, she poked her head into the dark corridor. _Odd,_ she thought, _what happened to the torches?_ Trying to recall the name of the guard on sentry tonight, she started to step out of her solar. “Gra-” Two pairs of gloved hands grasped her arms, wrenching her fully out of the solar before she had enough time to scream.

 

~

 

She had gotten a good knocking, and the next thing she knew, she was gasping tied to the saddle of a horse. The winter winds were wiping her hair against her face mercilessly. Her _companions_ were sprinkled around her, with one leading her horse. Their armor and emotionless faces were clear enough, even in the darkness. Unsullied soldiers. _Fight every battle,_  she thought bitterly, _you stupid girl._  

She should have known better, prepared for it. She had most definitely not been prepared to be kidnapped in the middle of the night by a small band of Unsullied soldiers, who apparently took it upon themselves to dress her as well. Taking in her riding dress and cloak, her bound hands curled at the thought of being touched without her consent. She took little comfort in the fact that they were eunuchs.

Growling under her breath, she looked behind them and could've sworn that she saw the lights of Winterfell steadily fading. How had she not thought of this?! Daenerys hated her, and hadn’t really bothered hiding it after their “friendly chat.” Sansa should have been better at hiding her own animosity towards the woman and held her tongue in most, well, all of the interactions she had with her.

There was also the matter that she had divulged the information to Tyrion- wait. Daenerys couldn't possibly have known that in time to organize this. Dawning on her, she couldn't help but give a dark chuckle at the woman's cunning.  _Well played, Dragon Queen._ Had she really acted so harshly for Daenerys to feel the need to act on it preemptively?  _Apparently,_ I'm _the Northern fool, then._

Hanging her head, she bit her lip at the thought of the other fool from the North. Had it been any other man that brought Daenerys back to Winterfell, she was almost completely confident that things would have turned out better, at least her behavior would have been better, and perhaps she wouldn't be tied to a horse right now. But it _was_ Jon who brought her back, Jon who sat beside her, Jon who _loved_ her. _You stupid girl, you never learn._ Had she really been so overcome with jealousy that she couldn't control herself? The sight of Jon and his queen filled her with such a primal possessiveness that she could hardly speak, let alone play the Game correctly.

She’d deluded herself into thinking that he would come back, and things could be as they once were, with him as King and her as his advisor. The wolves of Winterfell against the world. Then came the only letter that he'd sent, and every dream or wish had gone out the window. She had still held on to the thought of him coming back and not having fallen prey to the unmarried and beautiful queen. Of being different than all the other men that fell at Daenerys' feet. She'd been wrong, _again_. How many times would it take for her to stop falling prey to princes? Hidden prince or not.   

Before coming to Castle Black, she’d been lost, no hope left in her heart, her body had been broken as well as her spirit. Then, Jon had sparked within her the will to fight again. They’d taken back their home together, and created something that could _last_. Then he had left to better secure their lives, and all he had helped return to her was put to the test, to stand on its own and thrive. She had done it, ruled in his stead for Winterfell and their people as much as it was to prove herself to him. That she wasn't an empty-headed girl anymore.

Then he had returned… and it felt like the Jon she knew had been stripped away, in his place a stranger taking her into his arms. A stranger who loved a beautiful queen. Littlefinger had spoken the truth, for once. Daenerys was beautiful indeed, and it seemed that Jon was not as different from other men than Sansa believed. She hadn’t blamed him, but the despair in her heart was excruciating to conceal. From then on it was a constant battle to keep her words free from the envy inside her whenever she spoke with the silver-haired beauty.

 _You stupid, stupid girl,_ she huffed a bitter laugh, the breath misting in front of her and disappearing. They continued on, away from Winterfell, and most undoubtedly towards King’s Landing. The thought that Jon would probably be wherever she went would have once filled her with anticipation, _happiness_ , and yet the sinking pit in her stomach reeked of dread. The Jon she had once known would have saved her, she knew without a doubt. But the Jon that loved his Dragon Queen... she recalled the scathing look he had shot her the day before leaving when they were planning the march South, it had taken everything in her to stand tall and keep her cold mask in place. Aegon Targaryen loved his queen, and Sansa hoped she burned quick.

 

~

 

They were a little less than a day behind Jon and the Northern army, whether or not they had the same destination was unknown to her. It didn't really matter, she was sure she'd end up dead wherever they were destined. The Unsullied were always silent, and Sansa felt she’d go half-mad before they reached the end of their journey.  She was surprised that she’d woken up ungagged, and tried testing her voice once, only for one of the men to approach her and lay the point of his spear on her lips. She’d gotten the message.

Feeling bold today, she took to humming old tunes dredged up from hidden memories, with the long silences giving her time to reflect and remember. It had been a week since she was abducted, and while her captors made sure to keep the bare minimum of her needs taken care of, she could tell that her body was tiring more each day. They kept a relatively slow pace, which she wondered after constantly. It had been the reason she'd tried out her voice. She assumed it was most likely to stay a good ways away from Jon and his army, but she couldn’t be sure.

They’d only encountered one traveler, earlier this morning, and the man now laid dead in a bed of blood far behind them. The Unsullied had moved as one off of their horses, which she still had a hard time adjusting to seeing since she’d thought they didn’t operate on horses, and the man was struck down in their usual silence. To her credit, she didn’t cry out, but the sight of the poor man lying face down in his blood still sent a shiver down her spine. Daenerys’ orders, no doubt. Leave no one alive in their wake. Looking over to their bloody spears, she continued her humming, filling the bleak silence with the tale of Naerys Targaryen and her Dragon Knight, and thinking back to the times where she had her own Dragon Knight rescuing his lost Princess. 

 

~

 

**Another week passes...**

 

They were near King’s Landing now, she could feel it in her bones. In the distance, she swore she could hear the commotion of an army camp, the sounds bringing her back to ironically simpler times, times where battles between bastards and winning back her home were the largest threat. What she would give to go back to the day he had left Winterfell. Left her. 

The Unsullied men were looking a little more restless today, whether or not this was because they didn't know which orders to follow, she was unsure. The one thing she did know was that King’s Landing had not yet fallen, but by the sounds of the camp, and the not yet risen sun, she reckoned they would be moving out soon. They must have made good time if the battle hadn’t yet taken place.

Stupidly, she wondered if she’d be able to see Jon, or even possibly Davos or Gendry. At least one familiar face before she was inevitably brought before the Dragon Queen. _But not my Queen, never mine._ The man leading her horse halted, as did the others, and she heard someone approach from her left. Before being able to ask what was going on, her head was wrenched back by her hair. She gasped as a gag was tied around her head and a burlap sack synched at her throat. _So much for humming, then._ They continued on, and for the first time in too many moons, she felt the sun hit her skin.

 

~

 

They'd just finished tying her to a tree when the screaming started.

Hearing the bells had brought unexpected peace to her. King’s Landing had surrendered, and from what she could hear, it didn’t sound like too many men had perished. Waiting as the bells continued their deep bellows stretched on tensely. Then, and she would remember this sound until she died (however soon that may be), a great war cry had sounded, undoubtedly a dragon.

Sansa’s spine felt like jelly, and her head hung low as she heard the first onslaught of dragonfire rain down upon the city. The tree she was tied to shook with the winds, and for the first time in a fortnight, she wanted to scream.  Her anguished terror for the innocents that were suffering was bubbling up inside her, and yet the Unsullied around her remained silent.

There was no uncertainty that Daenerys was destroying King’s Landing with her dragons. Although, she had only heard one dragon. Most likely the favored one? It didn’t matter. Daenerys was destroying King’s Landing, and Jon was in that city, Arya most likely was as well. At this, something inside her seemed to break and she let out a piercing wail, broken and warbling, coming out muffled from her gag. One of the Unsullied tried to silence her with a strike so powerful that her head cracked against the tree, stars dancing against the light filtering in through the burlap sack.

The pain mattered not, she had suffered far worse than a single blow. Nothing mattered except for the lives of her loved ones at this moment. Surely, she would lose one of them, if not both. Politics, queens, forbidden or abandoned love be damned, her family was in that city, and she could do nothing about it. It continued on and on for what felt like an eternity, her sobs and the crumbling of King’s Landing joining together and making the most terrible melody.

Her sobs broke for a moment as her lungs tried unsuccessfully to regain oxygen, and then one of the guards behind her inhaled sharply. She stilled, lack of air forgotten. It was the first sound one of them had made on their entire journey. A moment later, and she knew why. A great cracking noise met her ears, and then a crumbling so great that she forgot she hadn’t the means to shield herself from the noise. _The Red Keep has fallen._ A shuddering inhale and exhale passed, and then all was quiet.

She was still crying when she heard another guard approach them, though she knew not how much time had passed from when the keep fell and then. The sense of apprehension came back as someone approached her and started to roughly untie her. They tied her wrists together and made sure to tighten the cloth tied around her head before setting off. This time, she walked on her own two feet, with a coarse rope loosely tied around her neck to lead her like a stray dog. Her sobs died in her throat as she was led on, and the only sensation in her body was the grip around her heart that grew tighter and more painful with each step towards the simmering heat of fire.

 

~

 

She estimated it was about midday by the time they reached the gates of King’s Landing. From what little she could see, as well as smell and feel, the city was in ruins. Ash rained down from the sky like a peaceful snowfall, settling on her arms and sticking to her throat with each breath. She could only make out silhouettes, but she liked to think that she could tell who she passed by based on the shaping of their armor (or lack thereof).

Just now, she’d been handed off to a group of Dothraki, who looked much more fitted on their horses than their Unsullied counterparts. Grabbing hold of her rope, one of them yanked her forward, causing her legs to buckle and send her sprawling. She realized she quite preferred the silence that came with her first set of captors. He pulled her up by the rope, with her gasping all the way, and grabbed hold her bound her wrists. Hauling her up onto his horse, he cut off the rope around her neck, the now exposed skin burning from the rope chafing and being pulled taught around the sensitive flesh.

After he spat some words in their foul language, they took off up the road, towards what she feared was the Red Keep, or whatever remained of it. Everything they passed was a blur, but she was able to discern that the people of King’s Landing had been decimated. They shot past mounds of smoking debris, and the threat of being sick all over the horse suggested that the piles had once been living if the smell was anything to go by. She wasn’t sure how long they rode for, but when the horses finally stopped their jolting, the feeling in her head did not.

There was someone speaking in a booming voice, she registered, it echoed across the square, or wherever in the seven hells they were. It took her only a second to realize whose voice it was. The abhorred woman it belonged to continued to speak, but she couldn't understand a word of it. Her ears were ringing, whether it was the hit her head had taken, the deafening sounds of King’s Landing’s decimation, or a combination of them both, she couldn’t focus on what the Dragon Queen was saying.

Finally, after she had tried to lay as still as she could, she started to make out the words that echoed to her ears. Jon, Daenerys was talking about Jon. Winterfell, Jon, battle... The words were becoming clearer, and she tried to listen with growing hope that he was alive. The hope, as usual in her case, died immediately.

"-is a traitor to the crown, and because of the love I bore him, I have given him the choice of death,” and then there was an eruption of familiar shouts and curses. She froze, she’d heard those same shouts before. Whenever they disagreed with anything that either Jon or she said, this chorus of boisterous lords would ensue, and for once, their belligerent words brought a small smile to her lips. Sansa couldn’t help the flicker of hope that started to grow in her chest as the Northern Army continued to shout their dissent.

“SILENCE,” Daenerys screamed, and the order seemed to reverberate in Sansa’s very bones. “I gave him the choice of death or banishment beyond the wall.” Letting that settle into every mind in the square, she continued. “He has chosen banishment.” Then her voice took on a dangerous edge, and Sansa couldn’t stop the thundering of her heart. “Should Jon Snow _ever_ disobey his sentence, or arms are taken up against me on his behalf, _every_ man, woman, and child that resides in the North will receive the same fate you witnessed today. You may either leave in peace immediately _or burn._ Make your choice now, or forever seal your fate.”

 _J_ _on, Jon, Jon, what have you done?_ The only solace she took was that he was alive, and going where he could live peacefully.  _Oh Jon, you don't deserve this._  He'd been tired of fighting, and it seemed that was all he had done since she met him again. Before that, from what he said he'd been non-stop fighting as well. Would he find comfort that he would be far away from anyone who could force him into another fight? He had gotten out of his life service and then fought and fought and fought, and now he was going back after serving everyone else's purposes.  _The North will fight for him. As he fought for us all. They must. Arya will fight for him when I cannot any longer._ The Dothraki continued on after the echoing steps of the soldiers faded from her hearing.  _My beloved family,_ tears ran across her trembling lips, _forgive me_.

 

~

  
They drug her by the scruff of her neck through the halls, barely letting her keep up and not suffer a smashed nose on the ground they tread. She wanted to scream and curse like a rabid animal, rip her hands from their bindings and scratch the faces of these monsters with her claws. _You’ve riled the bound wolf,_ breath came hot through her flaring nostrils and her teeth sunk deeper into her muzzle, _somehow, someway, you will pay dearly. As all my other abusers have._

They shoved her against a wall, the ringing in her ears coming back with a vengeance. They all stood there for quite some time, occasionally hearing muffled shouts somewhere down the hall. Who was it? She wished she knew. She remembered the screaming from only an hour past and wondered if Jon had joined their cries.  _Oh Jon, what have you done?_ Had he gone against an order? Killed someone he shouldn’t have? Said something he shouldn't-  _She'd said something she shouldn't have._

 _Oh, gods._ _No. No, no, no, no, no-_ Letting out a screech of agony, she fell to her knees. Jon was in danger because of her, had fallen out of the good graces of his queen because of her. _What have I done? What have I done!_ Surely, he was still in the capital, somewhere in the keep right now, suffering and alone, because of her. Gnashing her teeth, the cloth bound around her head started to tear.

She had to do something. She’d tried to keep him safe with her dishonor, and yet all she’d done was forsaken his trust and put him in even more danger. _I’m sorry Jon, I’m so sorry._ She wept on her knees bitterly, cursing herself for being so stupid. A Dothraki smacked her cheek and she went reeling, morbidly amused at the deja vu of being struck by a cruel queen’s soldier. She tried in vain to stop the fall with her bound wrists, but only succeeded in landing on her side with a loud _thud_. The Dothraki were undoubtedly cursing at her in their spitting tongue, but she lay still.  _Jon,_ she groaned as they slammed her against a wall, still spitting curses. _Jon, I’m so sorry, I love you, I’m sorry._

The Dothraki grew still. She stilled as well, sensing the change in the air before any of them acted on it.  Just as the first hand slid down her side, a raw instinct took over as she blindly kicked and squirmed away from their heavy hands and nauseating breath. This would _not_ be how she died, at the hands of savage rapers! She shrieked, the shrill sound of her voice coming through her bindings just fine as the men stumbled back from the ear-piercing cry. She was back-handed again, falling to the floor once more.

Letting the rage boiling within her flood throughout her body, she bit through the last threads of her gag. “DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH ME.” She bellowed, her voice echoing down the halls ominously. Her hands her were still bound, and her head was still covered so she could hardly see, nonetheless she stumbled to her feet and stood her ground. One of the Dothraki growled and advanced towards her with outstretched hands as she backed away.

She prepared to swing at his head, despite the fact that it would probably break a couple of her pathetically fragile bones. His silhouetted head was just within reach-

“ _Don’t you dare touch her, Daenerys!_ ” Came a broken cry that had her head snapping in the direction that the sounds of a scuffle came from. She knew that voice, even though the Northern brogue was raised to a furious roar.

She knew that sweet, familiar voice.


	2. Envious Hearts and Empty Halls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter! It's got a bit more content to it, dialogue-wise. It'll be a bit more time before I can post the third chapter since this one was actually supposed to be attached to the first chapter. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

He found the Queen exactly as he’d imagined, looking imploringly at the Iron Throne, hand clasped on the pommel of a sword. She’d not yet sat down, and he was sure he’d be interrupting a _very_ important moment for her. He cleared his throat and struggled to wipe off the disgust on his face. She turned, ever the graceful queen, and gave him a look so full of love and accomplishment that it left him reeling.

He could have loved her if his heart hadn’t already belonged- _to the North,_ he growled inwardly. He could have found it within himself to care for her at least, in return for what she had done for all of humanity. Had it not been for the threats against Sansa, for never accepting the battle against the dead as everyone’s war, for burning Sam's father and brother,  _for burning an entire city,_ he would have never lost a night’s rest at helping put her on the throne.

“ _This war is against all of the kingdoms,”_ Sansa had said one night not so long ago, chest heaving from the exertion of their argument. The fire behind her had silhouetted her shining black armored dress, making her look ethereal. He was ashamed to admit that the sight of her unique beauty was very hard to look away from. “ _It’s not just the North’s war, we owe her_ nothing _, because if she truly cared about the kingdom she fights for, she would have come to save her people without demands.”_ He had felt like a fool that night, under her intense gaze, although he usually felt like a fool when he was in Sansa’s presence. 

Daenerys was speaking to him, something about their great victory. She was beaming at him, actually _beaming_ , her eyes shining with triumph. _You decimated them when they’d given up, how can you feel anything but guilt?_ He certainly felt the weight in his stomach, recalling all the men who had previously laid down their arms, that were later struck down by his own hand.

Realizing he had waited too long, the smile he tried to throw her way was pitiful. His mask had gotten better the longer he lied to her, spent time learning what blinded her the most, but the memory of burning children still shook him to the core. She sighed, her eyes sweeping around the destroyed throne room like it was the grandest thing she’d ever seen.

“All my life I dreamed of this moment, at first I dreamed it was my brother taking the throne, and then it was me. It was so much more _right_  when it was me on the throne. Now, here we are. I’m right where I was destined to be, and I have you, my loyal and beloved _advisor,_ by my side.” Her mouth twisted slightly, spitting the word _advisor_ like it was a curse. He fought off the urge to grimace.  _This is not going to go well._

“Grey Worm told me something that is quite,” she inhaled a long breath, her eyes turning to stone, “ _disappointing_.” She started to circle around him, like a snake slithering around a trapped mouse. She had no dragon, no army behind her back, so he knew she wouldn't try anything with him. It didn't stop the cold fear that seized his heart.

 _You're a Greyjoy, and you're a Stark,_ is what he'd told Theon. And now, he truly let his own words sink in. He was the snow, chilling and terrifying in his fury. He was a wolf, separated from his pack and poised to rip out his enemy’s throat. He was a _dragon,_  armor made of scales and a fiery inferno burning in his chest to destroy his enemies. Snow, Stark, Targaryen. 

He took a steadying breath, imagining that he had his pack flanking him, giving their silent support.

“And what is it that has disappointed you, my Queen?” The term meant for endearment was now a thinly veiled insult as his mouth betrayed his disgust. She stopped behind him to the left, just far enough that he could clip her with Longclaw if he so wished. But, could he harm her? She was a defenseless, small, lonely woman who had just lost her best friend and “child,” on top of so much more. A defenseless woman who is responsible for the burning of countless lives. There's no excuse for that.

Tyrion's voice echoed in his mind. Would _you have done the same?_ Damn the Imp. Jon had fought, he’d lost, he’d bled, and he cried, but he would _never_ take it out on helpless strangers. Suddenly, her mouth was inches away from his ear, her breath hot, and he instinctively recoiled.

“You tried to defy me, _again.”_ She snarled, stalking after him as he retreated from her, as much for her safety as his own. “You tried to make your men stand down when the battle was not yet won. You tried to stop Grey Worm from carrying out _my_ orders!” She made to continue, but he stopped his retreat in favor of going on the offensive.

“The battle had been won!” He roared, the open sky above swallowing his bellows. “They rang the bell in surrender, and you burned them all anyway!” His voice cracked, “I thought you a kind, just woman, and everything this suffering kingdom needed after the madness that we’ve all been through. But _you_ ,” he drew in close, fighting the urge to strike her, “you are the worst of them _all_.”

She shook her head, a small belittling smile twisting her lips like he was the daftest fool to ever walk on the land. “I _delivered_ them, Jon. I liberated them all from a tyrant who would have done far worse-”

“You became one yourself! You're the one who has done far worse than we could have imagined!” He shouted, “Perhaps you’ve been one all this time, and we’re both fools duped by your delusions of destiny. I thought that my destiny, the reason I was brought back, was to kill the Night King.” He stopped, feeling the confliction inside him again that had been there the moment he'd heard his sister had killed the Night King. Proud, and oddly defeated. “I didn’t kill him." He said simply. "Instead, I realized that destiny is hardly what we expect it to be, and we all should just let our lives play out as they should, _free_. You didn’t liberate, deliver, or free these people, you robbed them of their lives and futures.”

He unsheathed the dagger, looking at her with pained eyes. “I never wanted to do this," he choked, "I wanted you to be Queen in return for helping defend the realm from certain death, and I wanted to go back home to my family. I never wanted these people to die... and I never wanted to kill you.”

Her eyes now held a tinge of panic, "And the love you supposedly bore me?" she said, slowly backing away from him. "Was that a lie to trick me into serving your purposes? DID YOU MANIPULATE ME?!"

He stopped short, the shame he'd been fighting ever since _that_ night on the damned boat returning like a punch to his gut. "I'm sorry." Was his only reply, whispered in remorse. She staggered back, going up the steps and gripping the throne like her life depended on it.

“I wouldn’t dare it if I were you.” She snapped. “Unless, of course,” her eyes were hooded as more vile words poured from her mouth, “you would consent to set into motion the death of your beloved _sister_." Her violet eyes bore into his, a vile satisfaction showing in the curl of her mouth. “The Great Red Wolf of Winterfell, the one who broke apart my council, the one who killed Varys!”

His knees felt weak at the mention of _her_. “You couldn’t touch her even if you dared, not with Brienne and Arya to protect her, Bran would have seen it!”

She scoffed, “Perhaps her death was predestined then, and I am the one to carry it out.” Her hand tightened on the pommel. "She told you to manipulate me, didn't she? Use my love for you to her own gain? I'm sure it was she who told you to pull that dagger from its sheath and stab me in the back." Her violet eyes became narrow slits, "Did she use her charms on you, as you've done to me? Maybe you're more of a Targaryen than I thought. Yes, Jon," she said at the horrified look in his eyes, "I've noticed the looks you two share, and the jealousy she bears against me every time you look _my_ way." 

 _Jealousy?_ He thought incredulously. Sansa had no cause to be jealous of anything. It mattered not, he clearly had a much more pressing matter to deal with than reflecting on the darkly amusing thought of Sansa being jealous.

"I acted alone," he murmured. "My poorly thought plan was one constructed last minute, when it became clear that you would not assist the North without my bending the knee. Yes, I used you, and played with your feelings to make you more amiable to my original intentions. Believe me when I say that I will bear the shame for the rest of my life of using your affections to my own gain, however, I would do it again if it meant that it would save the North, to save my people. If it is any consolation to you, I truly intended to uphold my end of the agreement and help put you on the Iron Throne."

He made no mention that he had also used her to distract himself. That every time he held her, kissed her, it was to forget the times he had held another, felt the soft skin under his lips that was forbidden to him. "I'm sure you know the only reason I tell you any of this now is that I don't plan on you leaving this room alive," he ignored the seizing in his heart, and took a hesitant step closer. "I want you to know that I truly did want to see you as Queen. But, you are not the woman I thought you were, and I, I am not the man I presented myself to be." 

Just as he lunged at her, a bone-chilling scream echoed down the corridor, halting his steps for half a second. It was all the time Daenerys needed. She screeched out in a different tongue as he lunged at her, and just as his dagger went to pierce the fabric above her heart, the Unsullied poured in. Turning with horror, he realized she had known all along, she'd planned to have her guards outside the hall, where he wouldn't see them when he entered.

She continued in that fluid language, and he spun her around to place the knife at her throat, the group of Unsullied in front of them stopping, spears poised towards them. Somewhere far off, he heard another shriek, oddly familiar in its cadence.

“The moment you kill me,” the trembling Queen ground out, “word will be sent to the convoy that has brought Sansa here. They will kill her immediately.”

He gripped her tighter, “ _She's here!?_ You’ve had her long before it even came to light she betrayed you!” _Damn you._ He thought. _Damn you to every hell there is._ He dropped the dagger, shoving her away from him in revulsion.

“I’ve sent your men away with word that you committed treason against your queen, and chose to take the Black once more.” She spat from her crumpled position on the ground, bringing a hand up to her throat.

Another unintelligible shout echoed down the hall, and this time Daenerys’ eyes shot to the door, eyes filling with grim satisfaction that had Jon feeling even more frightened and confused as the Unsullied roughly disarmed him.

“When they arrive back in their homes and undoubtedly search for you, finding you missing, and hear news that Lady Sansa has been missing since they left, they will most likely convene at Winterfell, where they will all come to _justice_ by my child. As for Sansa, she’ll die at sundown, and you will be there to _watch_.”

Every muscle in his body tensed as he snarled at her, “ _Don’t you dare touch her, Daenerys!_ ”

 

~

 

“ _Jon!_ ” She cried, “ _Jon, it’s me!_ ”

The struggling stopped, “ _Sansa?!”_ came his incredulous reply. Then the grappling increased tenfold, and it clicked into place that he was in a similar position as her own, and the guards were most likely _attempting_ to subdue him. The Dothraki took advantage of her distraction and got her back in their hold as she shrieked.

“Jon, oh Jon, I’m so sorry, this is all my fault. I was trying to protect you, I swear-”

A sharp voice cut through both of their cries, speaking in two different languages to the separate guards holding them. Jon’s cry of dissent echoed into the chamber as they were both dragged in.

She tried in vain to slip out of their grasp as the Dothraki shoved her through what appeared to be the all too familiar entrance to the throne room. She did not wish for Daenerys to see her tears, but there was no helping it now.

A loud thud echoed to her ears, and she took pleasure in the loud puff of air that escaped whoever was on the receiving end of Jon's blow. Sansa was shoved to her knees, and after some struggling, she heard Jon join her on the floor.

“Daenerys, I beg of you, don’t do this. Give her the choice to bend the knee. I'm the one that put her in an impossible position. She didn't know.” Jon was still struggling, and the grunt from one of the Unsullied with Jon's answering cry had Sansa silently seething. 

Daenerys _tsked_ , the sound echoing to them from where she doubtlessly sat upon her precious throne. “I seem to recall begging you as well, not so long ago. Had you listened,” she hissed, “None of this would have _happened_. You made your choice, and she made _hers_. Now, I have made mine. It is not what I want, but what is required of me as your Queen to carry out.”  

“Make eyak look finne each eshna.” The hood was ripped off, and the light from the gaping holes in the ceiling blinded her unadjusted eyes. The first thing she searched for was Jon, who looked horrified.

“Sansa,” Jon gasped, no doubt appalled at the old and new bruises upon her face. His eyes roamed over her face, and down her body. He looked as furious as she felt. 

Her chin quivered at the disheveled state he was in. His eyes were weary, his jerkin dirtied and his black curls escaping its tie, the rage inside her built again to know that he had just gotten done fighting for his life, and now he would probably have to give it up. She didn't see a way out of this, not without one of them dying. She knew which one she preferred living. 

Turning to look at Daenerys while preparing to plead for his life, she stopped short at the unreadable look in Queen's eyes as they appraised both her and Jon. She shut her mouth, trying to compose her wild thoughts as another Queen came to mind. Screaming and crying had done no good for her the last time she stood in this room, and it would do her no good now.

“Your Grace,” she began, “Jon has just fought for your cause, despite just recently getting out of a battle that we all fought together, and now you’ve won your Throne. Surely, you could get your council settled and we can discuss-”

“My cause?” she said quietly, her eyes glinting like sharp amethysts, “This is not just ‘my cause,’ this was everyone’s _true_ battle. I am the rightful queen of the _Seven Kingdoms_ , and any that oppose this shall be liberated of their tyrannical beliefs. Now,” she said, her eyes slipping to Jon’s tensed form, “I’ve already informed Jon of what will take place at sundown, I see no reason for him to hear it again."

Jon growled, low and deep like a wolf. "Why did you even bother bringing me in here again? To watch me suffer? Won't you have enough of that tonight?" The Unsullied shifted uncertainly at the slightly unhinged expression Jon wore.

The Queen's expression cooled, her eyes hardening into unbreakable stone. "I wanted to see for myself if it could be true." She offered no elaboration.

Looking to Jon, and finding that he was in a similar state of confusion, she turned back to the Queen, who had turned away. It seemed that her confusing statement was going to be left just as that.

"Do not fret, either of you," Daenerys' voice sounded hollow, her once rigid shoulders sagging. "This will not be the last that you see each other.” 

“Jikagon sir.” The Unsullied pulled Jon to his feet. He remained silent, and his dark eyes were so full of sorrow that Sansa wished for nothing more than to reach out and comfort him.“

 _Do you have any faith in me at all?”_ He had asked her, and she’d replied to him what she believed to be true, yet her actions had spoken otherwise. She hadn’t put her faith in him, she had gone behind his back and betrayed his trust. And now they were both here to surely die. “I’m so sorry,” she muttered to him, tears escaping her eyes.

"The blame is mine," he whispered.

She let out a painful sob, “Jon, I love-” the doors were closed between them.

With her breath rapidly increasing, she tried her best to compose herself. Pure, white-hot fury etched itself into the set of her mouth, flames of rage licking up her spine as she turned to the Great Dragon Queen.

“Sansa Stark,” she purred, the defeated set of her shoulders turned back to the prim and poised stature of royalty. “You conspired to have my throne taken from me, you are guilty of treason against your Queen. Therefore, I sentence you to death at sundown. Have you any last requests?”

 _Straight to the point, then._ The rage inside her did not subside, but the voice that flowed from her was surprisingly calm and sure, “I wish to die as my father did. I wish to die the way a true Northern man did. If I'm to die, I ask that you would honor the traditions of my people." There wasn't really a tradition of beheading in the North, but she truly did not want to burn. Anything but burning. If she had to, so be it. But she would be damned if she didn't try to fight it. 

The Queen’s lip curled, displeasure written on her face at the prospect of denying her dragon the chance to spit fire, or perhaps the satisfaction of seeing her burn. “I have had a man’s head separated from his body but one other time, and it resulted in an uprising. Surely you understand that I cannot risk such a thing again.”

Sansa took a stuttered breath, surprised that her patience had lasted this long. Whether it was her own patience or the Queen's, she didn't know. “Your Grace, should an uprising start on my or Jon’s behalf, I hardly think that the manner in which we were executed will play a large part in the anger of the uprisers." 

Pausing, as if a thought had actually occurred to her, she continued, "Well, in all actuality,” she said, feigning thoughtfulness, “I should think that killing us the same way that _your father_ killed the Stark’s of his time would elicit a greater sense of urgency to remove you from the throne. No, I think it would be in _your_ best interest to execute me in the same manner which the last traitorous Stark in King’s Landing received.”

The contempt sewn into the queen’s mouth did nothing to Sansa’s regained composure, but she could not help faltering at the sudden mirth in her violet eyes. “You would have made such an exemplary advisor, had you bent the knee to your rightful queen." She laughed humorlessly. "Such a pitiful waste of life,” she murmured.

Sansa silently seethed. _A waste of life is killing an_ entire _city for no good reason._ She kept her silence, continuing instead to glare balefully up at the silver-headed woman.

“Your last wish has been heard, I will have one of my Dothraki ready his sword at sundown. If only for the friendship we could have had.” Another guttural command and Sansa was escorted out, the image of Daenerys on the throne burned into her mind.

 _She’s so small_ _,_ Sansa thought hysterically. _So small._

 

~

 

There was at least one good thing to think about despite the finality of this situation; Jon had fought for her, and didn't seem to hold her at as much fault as she held herself. She didn’t deserve it, considering that she’d played a large part in getting them into this mess, but seeing him act like the man she had once known had sparked a fire within her heart.

She had missed _her_ Jon, the one she got small glimpses of but never actually got to cherish when he returned to Winterfell. Now that she knew there was a chance she wouldn't be alone in her fight, she wanted to live. Knowing that Jon didn’t seem to hate her as she had thought, she wondered why whatever gods existed seemed to enjoy punishing the Stark family so terribly, taking away and then giving back, only to wrench it away even more painfully than before.

It was one thing to die alone, it was another to know that you had a companion you loved dying with you. What would be the greater mercy for him? To watch her die, or to have him die first? She dearly wanted to be selfish and be the first so that her last sight was not watching the life leave his body, but that hardly seemed fair to him. Then his last sight would be her head rolling on the ground.

Would her legs jerk, like  _his_ did when he had been executed? Probably. She shuddered, bringing her knees closer to her chest and relishing in the feeling of finally having the freedom to move her arms and legs… in her prison cell. Quite ironic, but she supposed it was better than the dank cells beneath the keep.

She dearly wished she could talk to Jon. The situation became more and more confusing each time she thought of it. Had Jon been loyal to the North all along? Was there a simple falling out because of her betrayal of his trust? Had the decimation of King’s Landing, along with the deaths of half a million people, finally opened Jon’s eyes?

She wondered where he was right now, was he close to her? If she placed her hand against the wall, would his back be on the other side of these stones? She placed her forehead against the cold wall and imagined it was his jerkin, the winter winds making the leather freezing against the still tender skin that was freshly bruised.

Slowly pushing herself up, she ambled to the window, ignoring the pain blooming on her face and the unsteadiness of her gait. The sight was gut-wrenching. The houses were still burning, and the smell of burning bodies was wafting through the window. Spinning away from the horrific image, she pressed a hand over her mouth and shut her eyes tight.  

 _All those families, gone._ The realm was doomed, _Winterfell_ was doomed, and part of the blame, no matter what Jon said, was hers.

 

~

 

A loud commotion stirred Sansa from her stupor. Taking a quick look out the window with a sense of foreboding, she noted that the sun had nearly set. _My time has come, let it pass with no shame._

The door was wrenched open, and in came the Unsullied. She supposed these silent and deadly men were better than their brutish fellow in arms. She definitely had the experience to have a preference...

The man that stalked up to her looked familiar, Grey Worm, she remembered. He wrenched her arm and pulled her to her feet, keeping his eyes fixed on a point just above her head, never looking directly at her. A pair of irons were clapped onto her wrists, the added weight making her stumble forward. _I’ve been put in chains by the Breaker of Chains, how ironic._

She chuckled as they led her out, several guards probably questioning her sanity as they shot her wary glances. No matter, she wanted to laugh a bit more before dying anyway.

They made their way down the corridors, the only sounds being the echoes of their steps. A lone guard came running up, stopping in front of Grey Worm with widened eyes. “Se timpa zokla ēza ossēntan dovaogēdy.  Īlon zūgagon ēza escaped naejot find se mele zokla.”

Grey Worm’s eyes flashed, he made a motion for them to continue on, then hurried off with the guard in the opposite direction.

Furrowing her brows, she continued on with them in a daze, nevermind that she was about to die in a few minutes, she’s traveled with these men for a fortnight, and never once did they _ever_ look as ruffled as that.

Casting a glance behind her, she gasped. No one was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like writing from Jon's perspective... I've always been a sucker for the broody POV's, even though he didn't do a whole lot of brooding this chapter. 
> 
> Next chapter we've got some big shiz going down. It kinda feels like I'm writing a fanfic about my fanfic xD. The original was supposed to be a one-shot that helped me get my mind off my Trig final, but then I got attached to it and wanted to continue. I'm going to be making major changes in this next chapter to how I originally wrote it, and I'm so excited! 
> 
> Cheers!


	3. Executions and Exonerations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He looked at Daenerys with such pure hatred, Sansa felt the breath leave her lungs, yet still he remained silent. _Where is the adoration in your lover’s gaze now, Daenerys?_ Sansa took a savage pleasure in the way Daenerys’ feet were slightly unsteady as she stepped back from him.

Ash Toad continued down the alleyway with his squadron, scouring the buildings for any hidden Lion soldiers. The Queen had ordered their immediate executions, and one by one cowering lions had fallen in the streets. He'd struck down four himself, and the blood was still covering his hands.

They passed by an open window, and it almost seemed as if darkness was pouring out of the crevice, instead of light slipping in. The rest of his unit continued on down the alleyway, seemingly unaware of the phenomenon. There could be lions hiding in that den, or so he justified. Spear at the ready, he crept into the darkness. The shadows seemed to swallow him whole as a sudden chill sent a tremor up his spine.

~

He rejoined his unit, blood spattered all down the front of his armor.

The captain of their group had turned to him, eyeing his bloody collar with the dispassionate countenance that came hand in hand with the Unsullied. “Nyke dint tepagon ao iā udrāzma naejot henujagon, skoriot sia ao?” _I didn’t give you leave, where were you?_

“Kēlio mentyr.” _Lion soldiers_ , he replied smoothly, staring resolutely in front of him as a soldier should.

With a huff from their captain, they continued on, his disobedience forgotten. He gripped his spear tight and swiped a thumb across his lip in slight agitation before following in line.

The remaining people of the capital were scarce, hiding in dark corners and crumbling buildings. There were emaciated children cowering behind half burned barrels, ash and blood covering their small faces. He snapped his eyes forward, traitor children mattered not to him, and he wouldn’t spare them another glance. _Traitors and tyrants.._.

They found five more Lannister Soldiers, he only having to end one of them, before being ordered back to the remains of the Keep, no doubt summoned by their Queen. The acrimony settled deep in his belly and pulled his lips down into a scowl as they marched up, up, up. Coming to a large courtyard, they found their place among the remaining troops and settled in wait for their Queen.

 

~

 

_You really didn't think this through_ , _Snow_. He’d deluded himself into thinking that he could keep Daenerys under control. He’d clung to the hope that once she got her throne, it would temper her, give her a sense of peace. Truly, it felt like she’d just been humoring him all this time by giving him small bits of acquiescence when in all reality she just wanted an obedient, loyal, and  _quiet pet._

Mayhaps her mind hadn’t fully developed, and she was mentally still a child who hadn’t been taught to share or give kindness without her personal agenda in mind. _Mine mine mine_. He was letting his mind wander in an attempt to not dwell on his failure, or the fact that he’d be watching the one he loved, truly, die in a few hours time. No, if he dwelled on his failures right now, alone in his cramped “cell” while Sansa was in a similar position somewhere across the Keep, with her new cuts and bruises, he’d surely take his life.

_Too late now, you're thinking about it._ He’d failed, he had failed worse than any Northern fool who had stepped foot in the South. Countless lives were lost because he thought he’d known the woman who burned them all. And Sansa… Gods, he could hardly bear it. Seeing her face, the bruises along her jaw, the split on her bottom lip, the cuts on her cheeks, her flooded eyes and tear trails…

The screams he'd heard were too familiar to be ignored. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to accept that it was her. The Dothraki he’d barely registered had dragged her in, and the reputation they had with women- His fist collided with the wall, pain lancing up his arm and drawing a hiss through his teeth. _“Damn it!”_ he roared, fingers tearing into his scalp. Could he not honor a single vow he made?!

_No one can protect me, no one can protect anyone._ He had yearned so badly to prove her wrong. He’d failed almost immediately, and it was she who had ended up saving him. _Ironic, although fitting,_ he thought. 

But knowing that Sansa had been taken from their home, to the South no less, to another cruel Queen whose only intention was to see her come to harm, and then to know that these men had _touched_ her. He felt as though his insides were turning to ice, driving picks through his lungs and piercing his heart. He’d tried to listen to her, take her advice while trying to keep some semblance of his word and honor, and now, people had died. And so would she. He’d watched the people burn. Now he would watch her. He could only hope that Daenerys would be merciful enough to end him after getting her vengeance-

The door swung open, and a single Unsullied soldier stepped through, shooting a wary glance behind his back. In his arms, he carried a stack of clothing, black as night.

The door was closed behind him with no one following as back up, which Jon found odd considering that he was a known fighter. He wouldn’t waste this opportunity, no matter how small the chance. He needed to get past however many soldiers were spared to guard his door, and try to find Sansa in this hellhole.

He sprung at the soldier, making to snap his neck when the man dropped the clothes and rolled out of the way. _This one is agile, more so than the usual Unsullied._ The soldier was back on his feet in one lithe movement, and Jon stood still with bated breath in wait of the inevitable call for backup. “We don’t have enough time for questions, you thick brained idiot, so keep quiet and _don’t lose your mind.”_

Utterly bewildered, and slightly offended, he opened his mouth- promptly choking on his own spit.

 

~~~~

 

It seemed like the Dragon Queen chose to honor her word when she thought it best, so there was really no telling if Sansa would actually get her last wish. It didn’t seem likely, Daenerys wasn’t one to deny her dragons, and she hated Sansa, so the chances of her staring up at a huge dragon in a few minutes were quite high, despite the Queen’s promise of a sword readied for her neck.

She supposed it was a thing of pride, on both their parts. Sansa wanted to die in the same fashion that her Lord father had carried out for many an oathbreaker, and had received that fate himself. Daenerys would want to execute with the only thing she held dear, while also making another example out of Sansa.

Sansa was an oathbreaker. Daenerys was a Targaryen. Sansa was in chains. Daenerys had a dragon. There wasn’t much she could do about it, except hold her head high and die with as little shame in her heart as she could keep from it. The only shame felt inside her was the distrust she placed between herself and Jon. She’d broken an oath to him, dishonored his faith in her, it mattered not that she’d only tried to protect him, give him a choice… She’d played The Game wrong, and now too many lives were burned away because of her stupidity.

The Unsullied yanked her through a doorway, the sun above her struggling to peek through the mix of cloud, dust, and ash. It was nice to feel warm again, nonetheless, although she supposed she’d probably feel quite hot in a few moments... A sardonic chuckle burst from her throat. It appeared that her approaching death had brought out a dark humor in her.

“It would seem you've the traits of a Targaryen, don't you? Moreso than our dear Aegon, at least.” Daenerys sneered, as if they were picking up a previous conversation.

Sansa spun to the left, eyes latching onto the solitary Queen whose back was turned them, watching the gathering crowds who were no doubt there to watch Sansa's demise. Her mouth twisted in disgust at the use of Jon's birth name. He was Jon, and would remain so until that day he wished otherwise. Her brows furrowed at the subject as she realized what the Queen had said.

“I-I don’t know what you mean.” She replied uncertainly. She had no idea what the angle was here, she was advancing into the dark, and she decided it was best to just be honest. 

“Do not play coy with me, Lady Stark. The moment we returned to Winterfell, I could see the way you looked at him. I refused to believe it, but just there in the Throne Room, _I could see it clearly.”_ She turned slowly, her violet gaze piercing and voice seething.

“What are you saying?” Sansa ground out, Daenerys needed to be the one to say it. There was no way that Sansa was going to fill it in, and end up proving the raving Queen right.

“You’re in love with him." 

Sansa opened her mouth to deny it, but the Queen simply held a hand up with a stormy glare.

"You’ve acted in spite of me because of petty jealousy that he loves me, and could never bring himself to love _you_. What was it that truly broke you enough to come to love your own brother in such a way? You’ve no Targaryen blood to blame... Was it that bastard fellow that broke your body? Did he break your mind as well? Or was it Cersei and her son, perhaps?”

Sansa would not be cowed by this. She tried desperately to not let the words sink too deep, nor acknowledge the fact that Jon had probably been the one to share this information with his Queen. _It was Varys. It was Tyrion. Not Jon,_ not _Jon._ Quelling the trembles traveling through her body, she fought to keep her composure under the watchful eyes of the Dragon Queen.

“Your assessment of my feelings for Jon is incorrect.” She stumbled over her words. Gods, she needed to calm the hells down. _Remember your head. Don’t get caught up in your feelings. Focus._ “I don’t love him that way,” she said, satisfied that her voice was clear and strong, _“But_ , it was not just the love I bear him that pushed me to act against you if that is what you are truly asking. I broke his trust and undermined you because I know exactly what kind of person you are. You’ll never be satisfied just having your throne. You’re a conqueror, not a ruler. You give out ‘justice’ and move on, thinking that your mere presence will secure problems that need years of work to fix.”

Thinking back to the many hushed conversations she’d had with Peytr, Sansa decided it was time to let her tongue flow freely. No games, just anger, _and truth_. She had lost the game, there was no reason to keep playing it. “You think I haven’t heard what’s happened across the Narrow Sea? That I would allow you into my home without knowing every move you have ever made? I heard what you’ve done, how you’ve condoned the slaughter of cities, taken over Mereen and abolished slavery, which I will permit was a noble act, but offered no alternative source of income. _And then_ , you abandon them in the hands of a sellsword. _A sellsword._  Have you no wits? The woman I was expecting to enter Winterfell was not the one that arrived with my cousin. I expected a beautiful child, naive and incapable of making level-headed decisions, it was the only explanation I could make for the terrible choices you made for your people. Only, I didn’t see a child that day in Winterfell, instead, I received a young woman who knows absolutely nothing about ruling. Blinded by her thirst for a throne she’s never even seen, until now. And now, you've incinerated the people you claim as yours and burned the city they resided in.  Do you even know what happened to the people of Mereen, _Misa?_ The slavers overthrew the semblance of rule placed over them, killed anyone that opposed slavery, and then _re-enslaved_  everyone you freed with even harsher commands. Most of the adults were brutally murdered, and the children work tenfold now that their parents are dead. Tell me, _Queen Daenerys_ , after all that you’ve done, all the mercy and justice that you’ve awarded these suffering people of Mereen and King’s Landing, do you truly feel that you’re fit to rule?”

Daenerys was silent. Her nostrils flaring as her eyes burned violently. “Bring her forward, it’s time Lady Sansa joined her family,” she spat in the Common Tongue.

The Unsullied seemed to understand enough to shove her towards the archway, following closely behind herself and their Queen.

After regaining her feet, Sansa stood with a straight spine and walked slowly towards the edge of the platform that gave way to a long set of stairs. A Dothraki man stepped forward, sword in hand, looking at Daenerys expectantly.

Overcome with sudden relief, Sansa couldn't help turning towards the Queen.

“Thank you.” Sansa breathed. Both she and Daenerys froze, equally surprised by the admission. They seemed to regain composure at the same time, though, Sansa turning towards the small masses, and Daenerys facing back towards the archway.

Sansa steeled her face as Daenerys called out, “Maghagon ñuha nāpāstre kin naejot.”

Somehow, she knew despite no knowledge of any other languages, that Daenerys had just called for Jon to be brought forward. She didn’t turn, not even as the echo of rattling chains seemed to split her head open. Her heart lurched as Daenerys’ presence shifted behind her, and she couldn’t stop herself from looking then.

Jon was stoic, looking resolutely at his feet, adorned in some sort of tunic and breeches, black as night. Grey Worm was beside him, his hand clasped so tightly around Jon’s arm that the knuckles had turned white. Jon’s mouth was dropped into a thin line, his brow furrowed. It was a look he wore all too often, and the familiar expression brought her a surprising amount of comfort.

Daenerys was gripping his other shoulder, her mouth practically pressed to his ear as she whispered furiously. His face remained apathetic, up until Daenerys finished her whispered speech… His eyes closed, and he released a breath in a great gust. He looked at Daenerys with such pure hatred, Sansa felt the breath leave her lungs as well, yet still, he remained silent.

_Where is the adoration_ _in your lover’s gaze now, Daenerys?_ Sansa took a savage pleasure in the way Daenerys’ feet were slightly unsteady as she stepped back from him. Quickly composing herself, she turned and glided towards Sansa, taking position to deliver her sentence.

Unfazed, Sansa continued to look at Jon, willing his eyes to meet hers, just one last time before she died. He did not move. His eyes remained steadfastly on his feet, quite plainly refusing to look at her. It brought such crippling agony upon her, she struggled to remain standing. _You blame me, Jon. Rightfully so, but surely you know how much I need you in these last moments._ She would have to be selfish then, it should seem.

“I, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of My Na-”

_“Jon,_ would you-would you look at me, just one last time?” She burst out, _“Please.”_

Daenerys clamped her mouth shut indignantly, clearly furious at the disrespect of Sansa’s interruption. But Jon…

Jon would still not look at her. Why was it so important that he look at her? Wouldn’t he soon be following to whatever hell she was damned to? No, he couldn’t be. They would forever be parted, for that was the worst hell she could imagine, and one she deserved. Jon was good, wherever he went in the next life, it would be light there, and all that he longed for would surround him. He was honorable and kind, everything she was not. He was brave, gentle, _strong_. He fought with honor, while all she fought with were lies and shadows. He was all she wanted and couldn’t have, didn’t deserve. She lowered her eyes, mirroring Jon and looking at her feet. It brought her no surprise to feel tears cling to her lashes and leave wet trails down her skin, her lips trembled as she turned away from him towards the Dothraki waiting for her head.

_"Sansa._ "   

She turned so fast her head spun, but it didn’t matter, he was looking at her, his dark _familiar_ eyes a balm to her aching heart. How long had it been that he'd truly looked at her?

“Please don’t cry,” he whispered.

“I’m so sorry," she choked, "For everything.”

Jon’s eyes flickered, down to her feet and back up to her eyes. They always did when he felt at his most vulnerable, and it was something she took pride in knowing about him. Gods, she loved him. 

_“I love you,_ ” they chorused.

She let out a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh, his lips twitching in response. If she closed her eyes, they could be back on the battlements of Winterfell, when she’d felt his lips upon her skin for the first time. One of the most blissful moments of her life.

She thought of the way Jon’s eyes had crinkled as he laughed up at the sky, almost like he was daring it to continue snowing when she’d announced that Winter had come. She thought of Arya and Bran and Rickon as young children, their laughter echoing in the halls of their home. Father and Mother watching them in their comforting silence as they all played together. Robb and Theon’s bellowing guffaws that resonated in the very bones of anyone around them. Lady's silent support and comforting presence until the very end.

In one swift motion, she turned and dropped to her knees.

“Ajjin,” Daenerys commanded with a note of anguish in her voice, it left Sansa dumbfounded.

The sword cut the air, singing as it descended-

It was met with steel. The sound was deafening, and Sansa’s ears rang even as she covered them.

Raising her eyes, she tried to take in her surroundings. There were four things she realized simultaneously: Jon was standing over her with Longclaw, keeping the Dothraki blade from decapitating her. He was breathing raggedly, and his chains had somehow disappeared. Daenerys was nowhere to be seen, as was Grey Worm. And the fourth… Well, the fourth thing was that the entirety of Daenerys’ forces was pounding up the steps towards them.

At Jon’s desperate cry, she snapped back to attention. He was currently struggling above her to restrain the sword meant for her head, so she pushed herself an arm's length backward and rolled.

Jon grunted, Longclaw flashed, and the Dothraki man fell. She was hauled to her feet- and then they were running. First through the broken archway, then through the door she’d come from. Jon’s hand was clasped tightly around hers, practically dragging her through halls.

She was dimly aware that he was tracking markings on walls and corners, stopping them at certain times to follow certain paths at forks, and up and down staircases that had what bizarrely looked like chalk on its stone walls. _I’m alive,_ she thought incredulously. _Jon’s alive. I’m alive! I’m alive?_

Perhaps this was one last trick from the gods, a form of torture that gave her hope only to have it viciously torn from her hands. Maybe Jon was a demon in disguise, leading her to the personal hell designed for her.

Her feet started to drag, and the burning in her lungs was no longer able to be ignored as that thought sunk in.

_“Come on, Sansa!"_ Jon cried _,_ "I know, I know, love. But we must keep going.” No, this couldn’t be a demon, it sounded too much like Jon, the warm and calloused hand enveloping her own was too familiar.

It was then that she heard the shouting down the hall, as well as the clang of armor and weapons. _Ah, yes._ Death was still chasing after them, she doubted there would be a time Death didn't trail after anyone with Stark blood. Energized anew, she continued on with him, weaving around corners and trying to hold up her chains with her free hand.

They ran through a doorway, skidding around a crumbled wall. Jon tugged her forward, checking around them to make sure they wouldn't be spotted. She brought her other hand up to clasp his arm, opening her mouth to ask if he had any semblance of a plan, or if this was purely some sort of mistake the gods had made. Just then, a whicker accompanied by a familiar swishing sound shut her right up. It was then that she saw it.

_"_ _A horse?!_  Jon, how the seven hells-” She wasn’t given the chance to finish that.

Jon picked her up, carried her to the horse, and practically threw her onto the waiting steed, hardly giving her the chance to get her legs situated before joining her seconds later. Grabbing her hands and lifting them above his head, he ignored her gasp as he slid them down his torso to ensure the chains bound her to him. If he fell, she fell, and vice versa.

He took hold of the reins, give a swift kick to its sides, and the horse shot out of the small courtyard like an arrow. Barreling down alleyways, they passed ashen faces that blurred together and made her sick. Seeing the burnt city for the first time up close brought tears to her eyes, and the acrid smell of smoke and ash filled her lungs, making her cough and hack as she clung to Jon.

She nearly slipped off when the first cries came. They seemed to split the sky itself as the anguished bellows echoed all around them. _Dragon._  Jon pushed the horse even faster in response, and it was like they were flying through King’s Landing.

The cries of Dothraki joined the dragon suddenly, and the horde was deafening against the stones. Tearing out of the destroyed gate, she chanced a look behind them. The Dothraki weren't even in sight yet, their cries were echoing to them in warning. Jon hadn't bothered looking, as he pushed the horse even faster to race across the scorched lands. She didn't know whether or not to tell him they weren't being as closely followed as he might think. Deciding it might put a fraction of ease on his mind, she attempted to convey it to him.

"The Dothraki's cries echo closer than they are, they're farther from us than you think." She wasn't sure if he'd heard, but she hoped it offered some sort of consolation if he had.

"Not far enough," he shouted back, urging the horse to keep up its tiring pace.  

Soon enough, the forest stood directly ahead of them, offering its much-needed cover. They charged through the trees, narrowly missing the solid wood and causing her to press her face into Jon's shoulder, lest she let out a scream at the close encounters. She hadn't known Jon to be such an expert on horse, but it seemed he was far better than she'd ever thought, considering that she could feel how the horse twisted and turned under them at such a fast pace.

She was surprised the Dothraki weren’t already upon them, given that they were known to be such fierce riders, but it seemed they hadn’t even passed the gate yet. What had held them up? She knew for certain that they were nearly to the gate last she had looked, and she could still hear their distant cries.

The horse slowed, and she forced herself to unglue her face from Jon's shoulder to look. He was searching the forest frantically, sending a pit into Sansa’s stomach as he turned left and right and cursed under his breath. Were there soldiers close by? Did he hear something? Finally, he turned the horse west, towards the sea, and weaved through the trees as fast as the horse would allow, meaning she went back to her position of blinding herself against the coarse black fabric of his new tunic.

It was a time later when she gathered enough courage to peak over his shoulder, and the sight drew a painful gasp from her lungs. _No... It couldn’t be._ She was surely dreaming, or dead. The possibility of her being dead seemed quite likely with each miracle that popped up. And this... this was surely impossible.

Skidding to a halt in front of the three warriors on horseback, Jon turned the horse so they were parallel to Brienne, Podrick, and Sandor. They were all clad in armor and equipped to kill.

Brienne's eyes flitted to Sansa, appraising the damage on her face as rare and dark anger overtook her features. Taking a moment longer to look at Sansa, she wrenched her eyes away and focused on Jon. The burning intensity of her gaze would make mountains crumble, let alone the spine of one man. Jon's back stood rigid against her.

“Arya contacted you?” Brienne asked Jon urgently.

“Aye,” he said stiffly, "I know what to do."

The Lady Knight motioned for Podrick to come forward, and Jon's hands came down to rest on hers, tightening to the point where it was nearly painful as Podrick settled adjacent to them. A sense of deep foreboding rose up within her as she glimpsed the apologetic look the squire shot her.

“What’s going on?" She said warily, every event so far more confusing than the last, "Where is Arya-JON!”

He'd somehow twisted her around his body after untangling himself from her chains and now had her cradled like a babe, much to her dismay.

"Why you-" She started to bat uselessly against his chest, his facial expression seeming to convey that should the situation been any different, he would be greatly amused by her feeble attempt at violence. Then, she was being thrown _again_ , this time over to Podrick’s waiting arms. The squire caught her easily, situating her so that she was trapped between his arms and the reins.

Jon made to turn the horse and flee.  _Not again._ All previous thoughts flew from her mind. They couldn’t be separated, not again. She had just gotten him back, they needed to speak, she needed to _know_ -

“No! Jon,” she gasped, scrabbling against Pod’s shoulder to find him, she didn’t care if she sounded like a child, she'd just been _held_ like one anyways. _“Jon!”_ He’d turned away on his horse, Sandor and Brienne already having taken off in the direction she and Jon had come from.

At the sound of her cries, he’d turned back, albeit reluctantly, looking for all the world like he was in the utmost pain. 

“Jon, please, no! _Not again!”_ The distress in her voice was reflected back to her on his face. His brows were furrowed deeply, and the agonized eyes he turned on her took any words she had away.

_I’m sorry,_ he mouthed, taking less than a moment to look at her as if he was memorizing each slant and curve of her face. He turned, and raced after the two warriors, _towards_ the sounds of the approaching Dothraki.

Watching him go, she openly cried against Podrick, half in despair and half in exhaustion. Why must there always be battles? And why was it always his back she had to see riding away from her? Were they not allowed peace for any short amount of time? She slumped completely against Podrick, sure that he could handle the added weight. They set off deeper into the forest, to where she knew and cared not.

The pounding of their horse against the soil filled her ears, as did the fading shrieks of the Dothraki. And yet, it was the absence of one sound that truly terrified her. A chill crept up her spine and pinned her tongue.

The dragon had stopped screaming.


	4. Hell or Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His hair was still wet from the bath Arya had demanded he take, and the scent of cloves greeted her nose from what was undoubtedly the soap he'd used. Under the heady aroma, she could still smell the snowy woods on him, as well as the faintest trace of Ghost's affectionate collisions. He smelled like  _home_.

Screaming dragons and Dothraki... Distant voices... Hushed arguments... Silence... _S_ _leep_.

♛ ♛ ♛

She awoke in a freezing tent.

Shivers tore through her body as her eyes adjusted. The cot she rested on dug into her spine, eliciting a small groan through her chapped lips. Leaning up slightly, she looked down at herself, expecting to find the ragged riding dress she had worn for a fortnight. Instead, a woolen blanket covered her, with nothing but a thin shift to cover her body. This was not the shift she'd been wearing... When had she changed? Had someone taken it upon themselves to change her clothes _again?_  When had she fallen asleep and why hadn't she woken up when she was placed in this bed? Where was she?! 

The low hum of a thousand people talking quietly, as well as the shifting of armor and weapons, greeted her ears. For a moment, she thought she was back to the night before the Battle of the Bastards, the chilling Northern winds tearing through their camp. But no, her imagination could not be so vivid that she would dream all the events that had transpired since then. The War for the Dawn, her kidnapping, her near execution, and now, miraculously, her escape from death...  

Sitting up fully, she frantically searched the room for any indication of where in the seven hells she was. _Maybe I'm in one of the hells._ Wouldn't hell be warm, though? She supposed freezing in her own personal hell would be a more fitting punishment than burning. Gods, she really needed to stop thinking of this. 

It was then that she realized how warm her hand was. 

Eyes flying to her right, she found it clasped tightly in another. A small gasp slipped past her lips as she traced the hand up the arm, and finally, to the pair of familiar Stark eyes staring at her silently. 

Arya's mouth was set in a solemn line as she sat resolutely by her bedside. 

"Arya," she choked, tears already spilling down her cheeks. She threw her arms around her younger sister, and after a moment, Arya's hands slowly came up and pressed firmly into her back. They stayed like that for far longer than Sansa thought Arya could handle. 

Sansa was the one to pull back, shivers still running up and down her spine. 

"How did-Is Jon-why-" She had no idea where to start, there were so many questions, and her brain was muddled. 

Arya stood and turned towards the end of the small cot, hand going to Needle's hilt naturally. "The Dragon Queen and her children are dead. Her commander is no more, and soon enough, without any true leadership her armies will be nothing but bloodstains upon Westerosi soil."

A small noise escaped Sansa's mouth. There truly were no words that she could think of in response to that. Taking a hitched breath, she tossed the blanket away and swung her legs off the bed, ignoring how unsteady her feet were, as well as the dizziness that called for her to lie down again. She needed to clear her head, she needed to get dressed, she needed to find _Jon_. Realizing that she hadn't finished any of her previous questions, she turned back to Arya, who was looking out the tent impassively. 

The most pressing question first, she decided, "Where is Jon? Is he alive?" She enunciated each word slowly, albeit not unkindly. 

Arya turned back, eyes clouded with unfathomable emotions. She didn't speak, and for one agonizing moment, Sansa thought the worst.  Her sister crossed her arms, furrowing her brows. "He was here not 10 minutes ago, refusing to leave your side."

Sansa collapsed back on the bed, her breath escaping her body in a relieved gust. "Why didn't you say so sooner!? You made me think he had gone and-" 

Arya continued like she hadn't heard her. "I told him to piss off and take a bath, the stinky sod. That I'd take the next watch over you and make sure you woke up just fine. Brienne and I cleaned up the dirt on you, and I managed to find you a new shift and dress since I know you couldn't function without one." She shot an annoyed glance behind her at a small bundle, "Sam took care of the cuts on your face and said they shouldn't scar." At that, Arya's gaze darkened, as if she was thinking by thought alone she could kill those that had given Sansa their mark.  

Jon and Brienne were alive from whatever escapade they'd gone one, and Sandor most likely was too, if Arya's exclusion of him was anything to go by. A thousand more questions joined the thousand she already had. Whirling back towards Arya, her eyes shot outside frantically. "How long have I been asleep!? When did-" she tried to remember, "When did Podrick and I get back?" 

Arya squinted out the tent, "Pod said you went slack almost immediately after you set off to camp, and you've been unconscious ever since. Jon was in a frenzy when he got back apparently, thinking you had come down with some sort of illness. He was near tears blaming himself when I walked in, I was afraid he'd bruised your hand."

Now that she thought about it, she could feel a dull ache in her left hand. She imagined him, hunched over her bedside, blaming everything on himself like he always does. This time, she wasn't completely sure if he was wrong to do so. 

"Sam says he's in shock, and that your comatose state was a mixture of shock and exhaustion. So, that's why you might be cold, I suppose. As for how long you've been asleep, I'd say about 7 hours. Not nearly as much as you need, but as much as we can spare for now." She stepped closer and placed a hand on Sansa's shoulder. "We need to go talk with the others. Do you need help dressing? Or do you want me to wait outside?"

Sansa was still floundering. Subconsciously, she heard herself tell Arya she could manage on her own, despite not knowing where the dress was. Arya turned and grabbed the bundle behind her like she had read her mind. Handing the simple grey dress to her, Arya then stepped out, and Sansa stood numbly to dress. Jon was alive, they were in some sort of camp, Daenerys was dead- _Daenerys was dead._ Her chest shuddered as she stepped into the plain dress. The Dragon Queen and her dragons were gone, and it sounded like her armies would be too, soon enough. How had the odds changed from certain death to a chance at survival so quickly? 

Lacing up the front of the garb absently, she realized with a start that she was wearing a Southern cut. Looking down at herself, she grimaced at the sight of how much skin on her chest was exposed. It was modest, thank the gods, but it'd been ages since she'd worn a dress that showed anything below her neckline, and for good reason. There weren't many scars higher up on her chest, but there were traces of them peeking through at the tip of the bodice. _No one will notice, no one will notice,_  she chanted, _they can hardly be seen anymore._ She didn't want to upset people, nor did she want their pity or horror. These scars were a part of her, but they did not define who she was. At first, she had hidden them out of shame, but now, she didn't want people to look at her and immediately think of- 

_No_. She was Sansa Stark, these scars did not define her, and damn anyone who thought they did. 

After lacing up her riding boots, the only shoes available, she ran her fingers through her hair as she stepped out. She hadn't worn her hair fully down in public in quite some time, either. It almost felt like she was back to a young girl again, wearing simple dresses as her hair hung free. That was back when there was still laughter in Winterfell.

Looking up, she abruptly stopped, nearly tripping over her own feet. All around her she was surrounded by the clamor of soldiers. Young men running to and fro, while others hammered away, sharpened swords, cooked food. _An army._

"Told you we'd squash those foreign bugs," Arya snarked behind her, coming up and standing to look at all the work bustling around them. 

She was still in awe when a young man quite literally dropped what he was doing. He seemed to be carrying a pile of swords, which were now on the ground as he stared at her in shock. In her peripheral, she noticed Arya's lips pull into a smirk.

He pointed to her, and she couldn't ascertain if his eyes contained excitement or horror. He looked all around him as he shouted, "Lady Stark! It's Lady Stark!" Then, a chorus of exclamations sprung up all around her as people stopped what they were doing and gathered in excitement.

She could hardly believe her eyes and ears. These cold, unforgiving, brutal Northmen were standing around her, not being exactly _warm_ , but saying in their own ways how pleased they were to see her alive. A couple went so far as to declare loudly that they would be the ones to kill whoever had touched her Northern beauty. Despite the seriousness of the situation they were in, she couldn't help the small smile that pulled up her mouth at the sight of these young boys swearing to kill her enemies. 

One moment she was watching the pleased smiles of the older soldiers as well as the oaths the younger ones swore, and the next she was being spun around and crushed in an embrace. Knowing without a doubt who it was, she circled her arms around his neck tightly. His hair was still wet from the bath Arya had demanded he take, and the scent of cloves greeted her nose from what was undoubtedly the soap he'd used. Under the heady aroma, she could still smell the snowy woods on him, as well as the faintest trace of Ghost's affectionate collisions. He smelled like  _home_. She clung to him, nuzzling into his loose dripping hair. 

"You're awake," Jon sighed, his arms tightening around her. 

It seemed they were both contented to stay that way, with her feet in the air and their arms around each other much the same as when they'd first seen each other again at the Wall. That was until the stares of the crowd around them burned into their backs. They both remembered themselves at the same time, he dropping her and she stepping back with a blush. He looked down, surveying her dress and loose hair with pink cheeks. She attributed the flush spreading across his face _and down his neck_ to the energy used to pick her up. The entire crowd was watching the exchange silently, but it was Arya looking at them with a single raised brow that set Sansa on a nervous edge. 

She chanced another look at Jon, who was studying her face with an unreadable expression. He wasn't looking at her eyes, and she could only assume he was appraising the damage that she had yet to see for herself. She could certainly _feel_ it, craving something cold to press against the throbbing bruises.

His eyes were soft, and he slowly brought his hand up to her cheek, grazing his knuckle below her eye and down her jaw, skidding across barely formed scabs and fresh bruises. His hand was cold, and yet a trail of heat followed his finger, sending trembles up her spine. 

"Sam cleaned you up well," he said gruffly.   

"Then I'll have to thank him," she whispered.

Stepping away swiftly, she attempted to clear her mind. She looked to Arya, swallowing nervously as her sister's unsettlingly intense eyes flitted between the two of them.

Her throat ran dry, and she had to clear it to speak. "I need to know what the hells happened, and how Jon and I are alive right now," she ground out, unnerved by the prickling heat still lingering on her jaw.  

Jon glanced around them, suddenly hyperaware of their listeners. "Aye, we need to talk," he grunted. Motioning to Arya, Jon placed a hand on Sansa's back, guiding her through the crowds, who all nodded at her in passing or offered their relief at her safety. She sent small smiles back to each of them in appreciation. These men had been through two wars in such a short amount of time, did they truly want to fight another one? The thought of asking them to fight this last battle, to kill an army that they had fought alongside, it seemed a cruel and unjust thing to do. Even if this particular army fought for Daenerys Targaryen. 

Reaching a large tent, Jon held the flap open for her and Arya to pass through. It was warm inside, the candlelight making the tent look alarmingly like the one they'd had when they were touring the North for allies. The slightly appetizing scent of soup wafted around her, and oh gods, she was hungry. Searching around for wherever that soup was, her scanning of the room was interrupted by a loud exclamation, and then she was being crushed. Not like the weight of a desperate hug, she literally couldn't _breathe._

"Tormund!" Jon's voice was equal parts shocked and exasperated, with clear warning mixed in as well. 

Several cries then rose up around the tent, saying things about her health, _to leave her alone._

Tormund ignored them all. 

_"Heh, I knew you'd be hard to kill,"_ he rumbled, finally releasing her and letting air back into her lungs, "It's the hair. We fire-kissed folk don't go down easy, eh Red Wolf?"

Placing a hand over her chest to steady her heart, surprised by the affection shown to her by the usually friendly, but distant man. She couldn't help the breathless laughter that escaped her at the sight of the wide-eyed Wildling, surprising herself with the fond cadence to it. "I suppose not," she wheezed. He gave her one of his signature crazed smiles, then retreated to his position back against the wall. 

Turning to search the tent, this time for the familiar voice she had heard, she locked on to the woman in the corner who towered over them all. 

"Brienne," she said gently, quickly starting forward and clasping the hands of her dear Lady Knight, who would not look her in the eye. "Brienne," she repeated, no less tender, but with a firmness that hadn't been there before. 

"I failed you, My Lady," she muttered, finally lifting her eyes, which were tearful and utterly heart-wrenching. 

_Such a formidable warrior, such a tender heart. A beautiful combination._

Sansa opened her mouth to tell her how wrong she was, but Brienne was not finished.

"I should have been the one to guard your chambers that night, and once I found that you were gone, I should have-"

Ripping her hands from Brienne's, she instead grasped the woman's face between her cold fingers, effectively shutting off the Knight's self-deprecation.

_"Ser Brienne of Tarth,"_ she said sternly, "This was in no way your fault. None of us knew what the Dragon Queen had planned, and you very well couldn't have guarded my chambers every night. As for when I was gone, well, why didn't Bran say anything about where I was? Now that I think about it, he could have seen the Unsullied coming for me and warned against it... I-I don't understand. Where _is_ Bran, anyway?" Looking around the room, Bran was not among the small group. Jon, Arya, Brienne, Podrick, Samwell Tarly, and Tormund were the only ones in the tent, and at the mention of Bran, nearly all of their faces darkened, Arya taking on a murderous expression as Sam shifted nervously. 

"I-" she swallowed uncertainly, "I take it that I'm the only one that doesn't know whatever has caused you all this anger?" 

Jon took a measured breath, wiping his face wearily. Turning without a word, he went to the far corner of the tent, returning a moment later with a steaming bowl. 

"You eat," he said, pressing the bowl into her hands, "we'll talk."


	5. Shadowed Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had felt like he'd lost his horizon, the stars and the sun to lead his path. The world was colorless to him, meaningless, the Northern winds had lost their chilling bite. And then she had come, a beacon of fire surrounded by snow, and the disarray of his thoughts had shifted, his cold soul warming as his entire being honed in on one thing. _Protect her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit longer than the usual chapters, I hope you enjoy!

He'd sworn to himself that he wouldn't catch his eyes lingering on her face ever again, _especially_ when there was candlelight involved. Clearly, that hadn’t worked out. 

Here he was, watching as she sipped soup with her hair falling over her shoulders, much the same as the only other time he'd seen her hair loose, or at least it had been partially loose. So really, this was the first time he'd ever seen her hair like this. It was thicker than he'd thought, it framed her face in fire instead of being pulled back in twists or braids, it looked surprisingly fluffy, actually, and so soft. He quite liked it, he _really_ liked it. 

The sight in front of him was a little staggering, considering that she looked so similar to the day she'd saved him. Yes, saved him. He'd still been reeling from being _alive_. It had felt like he'd lost his horizon, the stars and the sun to lead his path. The world was colorless to him, meaningless, the Northern winds had lost their chilling bite. And then she had come, a beacon of fire surrounded by snow, and the disarray of his thoughts had shifted, his cold soul warming as his entire being honed in on one thing. _Protect her._

He hadn't known what to make of his thoughts then, when he'd watched her sipping soup before the fire, even still, he truly didn't. She was his cousin, yes, but she'd also once been his sister. What exactly he felt towards her was still unknown to himself, although he had a hunch. He knew that he didn’t regard her as a brother should, and it’d been this way even when they were both under the belief that they shared a father, and what would she think of that? She'd be as disgusted as he was, _is_ , probably more so. She sought comfort from him, not _this_ -

 "W-we should probably get started, there's n-not a lot of t-time," Sam stuttered as all eyes in the tent flew to him. 

 He cleared his throat, stepping further away from Sansa, just as much for his sanity as for her comfort. He didn’t want her to feel crowded, and soon, her mind would be flooded with the information that he himself was still coming to grips with.

 "Start at when she was-" He drew in a sharp breath, " _taken,"_ he growled. He wasn't sure who his words were projected towards, but someone needed to start the long tale before he tore the hair from his skull.

 Sansa set down the bowl, making to stand and most likely come to him. He shook his head at her, hoping it didn't look as panicked as he suddenly felt with the thought of her near. He couldn't have her close to him, not now. 

She'd been hurt _again_ because he'd failed the only thing he'd set out to do, and his hands itched to rip something apart because of it. Whether that was his own head, or the men in King's Landing, he didn't know. Didn't _care_. The closer he was to her, the more he was reminded of how much he'd failed her.   

Sansa leaned back, soup forgotten at her feet as she continued to stare at him with something akin to worry shining in her eyes. Why would she worry for him? Eyes flying back to the bowl, Jon frowned, momentarily setting aside his murderous thoughts. She needed to _eat_ , gods knew how little she'd eaten these past few weeks, and the shock and trauma that Sam had spoken about while she lay unmoving next to him-

"I, as well as another guard, came to replace the men on sentry the night you were taken," Podrick said shakily from the back of the tent, and the surprise on Sansa's face mirrored his own as they both turned to look at the squire. He'd forgotten they weren't alone, and it seemed she had as well. 

"We'd missed you by seconds, the room was torn apart... When I saw the shredded night clothes on the floor and the blood, I-I- thought-" His voice broke, shame seeming to overtake him

Jon could only stare in the same detached manner he had when he'd heard the story for the first time. The men that had taken her, they'd changed her clothes, stripped her, while she was _unconscious_. Something he knew would scar any woman or man, let alone one who had been through what she had. What she must be feeling right now...

He wanted blood, he needed to see these men die. _By his own hands._ He watched in silent fury as Brienne placed a hand on the squire's hunched shoulder, and then stepped forward herself. 

"He immediately came to me, and we set off after you," Brienne began, "Lady Arya was gone, and, well, admittedly I'd forgotten that Bran was an option to turn to, so we hadn't spoken to anyone, you were slipping further and further away with each moment we spent preparing to set off after you. It was a terrible error on my part, my Lady, if I'd only gotten more men and some torches, we could've-" 

"As I've said, Ser Brienne, there is no need to dwell on the what-ifs of the past. Please, continue," Sansa's voice was hoarse, like she hadn't the energy to draw a full breath. A dull ache settled in his bones looking at the weary set of her shoulders. 

After a tense moment, the Lady Knight continued. "We were able to track you for a few miles, but we think they split up to throw us off. By the time we'd been able to find a promising trail, you were long gone. We continued on looking for the next few days, but then lost any signs of the trail you left. That's when we ran into Lady Arya and Ser Clegane."

 

****

_A Week and a Half Ago..._

 

"I'll fetch dinner, go ahead and make a fire if you're just going to sit there," Arya snapped, setting off into the woods before he could tell her where she could shove that snark.

After a moment of him standing there stubbornly, he cursed under his breath and set about gathering kindling. He didn't feel like eating raw meat, that was all. They should just continue on, each time they stopped was that much more time until he could wring his brother's neck. Eating, sleeping, _stopping_ , those were the things that men who expected to live would do.

 _Vengeance_. He had nothing else to live for, nothing he cared for. He'd been wronged, _betrayed_ by his blood. He would right this, most likely die in the process, and no one would shed a tear for Sandor Clegane, _the Hound._ With no one to order him to do their bidding, the dog could get his revenge. The only thing left in his heart to cling to.

His fists curled around the twigs in his grasp, the sounds of snapping wood filling the otherwise silent forest. 

 _The girl_ , he'd seen the cold savagery in her eyes these past few days, the detached manner she spoke in, when she managed to speak a few words at all. He knew what she wanted... What she would no doubt get if she was allowed to step foot in that city. _Blood_.

He didn't want that for her, for that coldness to stay in her eyes forever. Where was the passion he'd once seen? The anger? Something firey and warm to replace these cold dead eyes that looked at him now. This wasn't what she deserved, what he wanted for the girl. The daughters of Eddard Stark deserved better than to succumb to the vengeance in their hearts, as he had. They needed to be stronger _, better_ than him. But how could he turn her away from something he himself headed toward? He could leave her, hope that she found reasoning within herself and returned where she belonged... 

But no, she wasn't just Arya Stark anymore, she was still the same stubborn girl he'd dragged with him across the Seven Kingdoms, but there was also the difference in her eyes. The look of an experienced killer. He reckoned she'd seen and done things that men only dreamed of, waking up screaming in their warm beds and clutching their soft bellies. No, she wouldn't return to Winterfell, she would forge her own path, the same path she'd been following since she had left him to die. 

 _"Clegane?!"_  

He whirled around, sword already out of its scabbard and pointed towards the toe-headed knight and her squire. 

"What the hell you doing here, wench?" 

"Is Arya with you?" There was a frantic look in the woman's eyes, scouring the dense forest for a sign of her. 

"What fucking business is that of yours? Still trying to finish what you started? I'll tell you, wouldn't think she needs your protection anymo-" 

"TELL ME WHERE ARYA IS, _NOW."_

Stunned, and surprised that he was, he lowered his sword. "She's hunting, don't know when she'll be back," he said simply, too shocked to say or ask anything else. 

Brienne dismounted, along with her oddly silent squire. The Knight started pacing back and forth in front of their horses, both he and Podrick following her heavy steps with their eyes. He stared warily, while Podrick clutched the reins of their horses wearily. 

What were they doing out in these woods? How had they caught up to them and found them? By the tone with which Brienne spoke, he assumed they hadn't been looking for them...

She still continued to pace, actually wearing a trail down with her boots. Her hands flexed violently as her eyes continued to look out at the forest around them. She stopped suddenly, turning to look at Sandor with burning eyes.

"Lady Sansa was kidnapped three days ago," she said gravely, "We've been searching for her since then but lost the trail this morning. I need to speak with Lady Arya if we're to have any chance of finding her."

The sneer on his face froze as the breath felt like it had been punched from his gut. The Little Bird was taken into captivity, _again_. He needed to know more, but he couldn't force the air into his lungs. 

Finally, he was able to manage one word.

_"Who?"_

Was it Cersei? Daenerys? 

Brienne swallowed, her hand going down to clutch at the pommel of her sword. "We're not sure. The only opposition that Lady Sansa has openly received recently is from Daenerys. It could've been any of her forces. Unsullied, Dothraki, even the remaining Ironborn... Cersei could very well be behind this as well. It could even just be a random group of men that want money, or worse, _her_." 

He spat on the ground, grinding his teeth together. "No, it's either the Dragon or Lion bitch." He didn't actually know that, and yet, _he did._ He could feel it, as stupid as that was. “Either way, you’ll need to go South.”

"I agree. Lord Snow has taken most of our remaining forces, but there's a chance that if we can bring the last of them, and perhaps catch the Wildlings before they reach the Wall, we can try and take her back. Merging with the troops down South would be vital..." 

She looked down, brows furrowing in deep thought. She peered back up at him with worry. "Do you think he'll join us against her? If it really is Daenerys who's behind the kidnapping?"

He didn't see or hear her coming up behind them, but the hair on the back of his neck stood up as her presence materialized in the small clearing. 

"He better, or I'll _make_ him," Arya said lowly, sending a shot of cold-blooded fear through him at the threat delivered in such a detached manner.

Brienne started forward, the frantic look returning to her eyes. "Lady Arya-"

"We need to get back to Winterfell, and ask Bran why the hells he didn't warn us against this." Arya stalked forward and swung up onto her horse all in the blink of an eye, Brienne and Podrick following after her just as quickly. 

They'd already set off without a backward look. But he still stood there, mute, indecision twisting his gut in knots. 

What of vengeance? 

The blood that he'd promised his sword? He'd waited since the moment he'd opened his eyes to the searing pain of half his face burned away to kill his brother. And now, he would give up that chance? For what?

He thought of his Little Bird as the frightened young girl she'd once been, flashes of righteous fury slipping through her courteous armor. A young wolf cloaked in feathers, lying in wait until her teeth sharpened and her claws grew in. Now, she was in chains, no doubt being taken back to the hell hole she had been imprisoned in for years. 

_What of redemption?_

It was settled, then. If not for himself, then for her. 

Sheathing his sword, he hauled himself onto the horse, kicking it into a gallop after the others. Towards Winterfell.

In truth, now that the choice was made, it was a wonder he had hesitated at all.

 

****

 

"And Sandor came with you? Back to Winterfell?" Sansa asked uncertainly.

Brienne nodded vehemently, turning to look at the youngest female Stark. “It might be best if Lady Arya takes over. She’s the one that dealt with Bran.”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed, “Dealt with how?” There was a cautious edge to her voice, and Jon didn’t blame her for the skepticism. They hadn’t exactly been reassuring on that topic. 

“Well, actually," Sam piped up, "she didn’t deal with him, we had to bar her from the room after that first encounter.”

“Not helping, Sam,” Jon said in an undertone, shooting an anxious look at his friend. 

“Oh, I was only-”

 _“Where is my little brother?”_ Gone was the soft-spoken lady, and in her place a she-wolf. Despite the ill-fitting dress and the bruises and slashes that marred her face, she’d never looked more a lady. It almost seemed everyone had stopped breathing, now acutely aware of her commanding presence.  

_This is what a queen looks like._

Her eyes fixated on Sam, of all of them, and he visibly shrunk from her fervent gaze. 

Jon suppressed a shudder. Even after being starved, beaten, and nearly _beheaded_ , she knew who to target for the quickest explanation. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. 

She gave a slight jerk of her head, clearly prompting the poor man to speak. 

“He-he’s overseeing Winterfell with the injured, old, and children,” Sam stammered. “Lady Arya came back and tried to get the information from him, but he hardly spoke a word. She was able to gather up the last of the troops, and she did something to Lord Glover and now his men are here, too. Tormund came back with Ghost, and then we ran into Lady Yara and her remaining men-” 

And then the tent was filled with terrible gasping noises. Sam’s face had turned beet red, and he clutched at his chest. 

 _Did he speak all that on one breath?!_  

Passing a rough hand down his face, Jon felt a mixture of pity and concern for his friend. Risking a look at Sansa, her face showed much the same as she strode over to Sam and placed a comforting hand on his back. _You weren’t doing that a moment ago, when you terrified him into giving you the information you needed._ He couldn’t truly blame her, though. They weren’t moving especially fast with their tale. 

At that moment, her gaze raised to his, burning bright as a blue sun. He froze like a deer caught down the length of an arrow.

He wished he hadn’t looked at her. 

“Tormund was bringing Ghost back to you, that's why he came back,” he said gruffly, not knowing what else to say. What he wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , add was why Tormund felt the need to bring him back. 

_“That woman has a face of ice, but when I told her you wanted Ghost to come North, ‘where he belonged,’ she cracked like a berg in Summer heat. He’s your beast, I know. And that’s why you needed to be the one to pry him from her fingers.”_

_“She tried to keep him from you?”_

_“You know what I mean, Snow. The wolf was restless the moment we left, too, always trying to turn me back. The farther we got from Winterfell, the more uneasy he was. Taking the beast back to her seemed best. I caught them all just before they marched South. It was like he’d known, and was trying to make me go back all along.”_

“What about Yara?” Sansa murmured, breaking him off from the thoughts of the conversation he’d been having just before he heard the shouts of her awakening.  

“I thought she’d gone back to the Iron Islands. That’s what Th-” She broke off, her mouth screwing down in one corner as she tried to compose herself. “That’s what Theon said.”  

“She’s here,” Arya said, finally speaking up from her secluded corner. “Said she’s on our side now, but won’t tell us  _why_. I don’t believe it, not for a second. And that woman is stone-faced, I haven’t been able to crack a damn thing from her.” 

_“Have you harmed her?”_

“Gods, Sansa, no. It’s just that I can’t read her face, _at all._ I’d find it impressive if it wasn’t so damn annoying. She said she’ll only speak to you about why she’s here. Same with Bran, actually. That was the only thing he’d said, too.” Her jaw tensed as her face twisted into a scowl, “I was going to throttle him if Brienne hadn’t intervened. I’m fed up with the blank looks and vague statements. _You’re our sister,_ and yet he said nothing! Wouldn’t even tell me where you were, if you were _alive._ The only comfort was that you somehow had to live if he was able to give you an explanation for this… But if he’d just said something, then-” 

“We’ll find out soon enough, I need to go speak with Yara,” Sansa grunted, her face paler than normal as she swayed on her feet. 

Lunging forward on instinct to grasp her elbow, his lips pursed in concern as she turned her dazed eyes on him. “The only place you’re going to is back to your tent, Sansa. You need to rest, we’re meeting in the morning to go over the plans and Lady Greyjoy will be there. It can wait.” 

She unsuccessfully tried to pry her elbow from his fingers, pulling the same face she’d worn just earlier today when she’d batted at him with weak fists. Feeling the grin he hadn’t the time to wear earlier slip onto his face, he tried not to let it show too much. He was sure she was much stronger than this, not as weak and clumsy, but she definitely needed to be taught some self-defense. _By him._

“I’m perfectly fine, I don’t need your help,” she gasped, staggering, _actually staggering_ , away from him. She grasped at the fabric of the tent, hunched over. It was several moments before he registered that her shoulders had started to shake. It was a rare and private sight, and yet he recognized it as if it were he in such a vulnerable position. It might as well be.

Remembering that they weren't alone, he realized she would be mortified if they stayed any longer.

“Leave us,” he said quietly, turning to look at the small group already filing out. Tormund was the first out, followed by Brienne, and then Sam and Podrick, every single one wearing similar solemn faces. 

“I’ll need some help with checking his wounds, if you wouldn’t mind…” Sam said quietly to the squire, to which Podrick agreed, shooting one last look at Sansa before following Sam and the Lady Knight. 

Turning to his sister, Arya kept her eyes on Sansa, lingering with a stubborn set to her jaw before meeting his eyes. He shot a small, tired smile at her, praying it looked encouraging, despite feeling nothing of the sort. After a moment of tense silence, she nodded brusquely and slipped out without a sound. 

Neither spoke for some time, even after being left alone. He would wait as long as possible until she was ready.

“I don’t understand,” Sansa choked into the silence, still turned away from him as her breaths increased in pace, _“I don’t understand!”_

Standing there, he thought of a thousand possible things to say. None of them were fitting, or would make her feel any better… He settled on acting as he almost always did, whether he tried to or not. 

“Now you know how I feel all the time,” he said with a nonsensical air, not knowing what else to say. He’d say anything to ease the pain in her voice, to take away the hunched set of her shoulders, like she was carrying the world. But, no words could take away the pain they’d all endured. Perhaps acting like a fool would bring some sort of light into the situation. And he'd never admit it out loud, but acting the fool came easier than he liked.

It seemed to have half of the desired effect. She gave a watery chuckle, pushing herself off the fabric wall and instead turning and sliding down to rest on the ground. 

“There’s still so much I don’t know,” she said airily, wiping at her tear-stained cheeks. "I hate being the one in the dark." She squinted her eyes up at him, “Arya organized all of this? Got all the Northern Lords to work together? _Lord Glover?”_  

“I can hardly believe it, either. Word that you’d been taken had yet to spread when she returned. She mentioned a serving girl’s face and something called ‘The Game of Faces,’ and how she found out that Daenerys had either bribed or left people behind to keep your disappearance under wraps. Everyone thought you’d come down with the shivers and was still bed-stricken, and that you’d sent Brienne and Podrick to me. That’s also how the Unsullied got in… She had a lot to deal with, alone.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling another headache coming on. 

“Were they dealt with? The servants?” 

“Aye, they were dealt with.” 

And then silence filled the tent once more. There was still the commotion of an army camp outside, but it was steadily dying down as the hours drew from late in the night to early day. 

She drew her knees up to her chest, hugging them to herself as her face took on a pained expression. “Why did you leave me today? Why was I sent away with Podrick?” She dropped her head to her knees, red hair creating an auburn veil around her, obscuring her face from his sight.

He was a bit shocked at the sudden change in topic, guilt returning to his gut as the Sansa's cries echoed in his mind. He very much wanted to part her hair, see her face as he tried to explain himself. He hadn't wanted to leave her, but it had been for her safety's sake. 

Walking over to her seated position, he dropped down next to her with a thud. Her hands were curled into fists, the long pale fingers unnaturally white. He wanted to take them in his own hands, smooth them out until they were relaxed. There were many things he wanted, and knew he couldn't have. Fighting the urge, he instead hung his arms over his knees and clasped his hands tightly together. 

“It was all part of Arya’s plan," he began, voice thick with emotion. He unsuccessfully tried to clear it. "She’s very smart, you know. You both are. It’s your mother’s wit, no doubt, that you’ve both inherited.” She’d raised her head to peer at him, her eyes focused in that way that always made his tongue trip over his words. He turned away slightly with the hope that keeping her in his peripheral would aid his sudden bought of awkwardness.

“Anyway… She came to me in my cell and scared the hells out of me wearing some Unsullied face. She told me what she could before leaving, that if she was able to get Grey Worm’s face, she would come back and place unlocked chains on me. She’d hidden Longclaw under some ash by the archway, how she got it I don’t know. She’d already marked the passages we needed to take to the horse if her plan worked. Clearly, it did, and her last instruction was that if we should make it out, we needed to head directly into the forest and then straight west to the sea."

Not yet finding the courage to look at her fully, he continued in a strangled voice. "Brienne, Sandor, and I were supposed to distract any forces chasing after us while you and Podrick made it back to camp. It was just as much to keep them away from the camp as it was to keep you alive. And I would do it again, and no doubt they would, too, if it meant you lived.” 

He could see her eyes were wide now, mouth hanging slightly ajar. Finally turning to look at her, the shocked expression morphed into one of pure rage. She started to hit his arm. Once, twice, three times.

"Is this going to become a common occura-"

“We had the entire Dothraki horde chasing after us, and the three of you did this _alone?!"_   She was nearly shrieking, and he hoped anyone around didn't think she was being murdered. "You’re all mad! How are you all alive, let alone uninjured?” 

Half-heartedly deflecting her blows, he dropped his hands as cold washed down his spine. Looking down, he could still see traces of blood under his nails.  _Blood, thundering hooves, screaming._  He closed his eyes. “Not all of us are uninjured,” he said grimly.

She stopped as well, sobering and leaning back on her legs, knees pressing into his thigh. “Sandor?” She asked tremulously, “Is he alive?”

Dothraki screamers, as well as Sandor’s own screams, played in his mind… A tremor went through him.

"We split up to scatter them," he whispered. "I went back through the woods, Brienne towards the ocean, and Sandor…” He shook his head incredulously, “He went right through them.”   

Taking her hand, he risked a glance up to her face. She was turned forward, her face rapidly closing into the emotionless mask she wore all too often. She was waiting for him to make it official, to say what he dreaded to.

“We found him after they retreated back to the city. He was still breathing, but barely, so we brought him back to Sam. The wounds are…” He swallowed, remembering how gruesome they looked, even to a seasoned soldier. Pieces of his back missing, wounds stretching from his shoulders down to the line of his breeches. If he lived, scars would cover scars. “Sam said if he survives the night, there’s a good chance he might make it. Gendry’s been keeping watch over him, and helping Sam. I’d suspect Podrick is replacing him so he can get some rest.”

Her face remained impassive, but the pressure with which she held his hand told him what her face wouldn’t. 

“I know you hold... a fondness for him," he quashed the feelings that didn't belong down. This wasn't about him, he could feel whatever _this_ was later. "Arya said he’s lived through worse, she’s confident that he’ll make it." He tried his best to reassure her, while also keeping some sense of reality in with it. She deserved the truth, but he also didn't want her to lose yet another piece of her heart, however odd or small it might be. Rubbing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb, he thought back to the expression of guilt he'd seen on his little sister's face when they were able to get the gigantic man into a bed. "She’s struggling, though, I can tell. I think she feels it’s her fault, since it was her plan.” 

“Sandor wouldn’t have done anything he didn’t want to, she shouldn’t blame herself." She still sounded detached, and so painfully cold. And then, something shifted, a twitch of her lip, a flash of her eye. Bits of emotion started to crack through her mask, a hopefulness that hadn't been there before.  "She's right to think he'll live.”

She turned to him, eyes fluttering in what could only be exhaustion. He wished she’d listen to him and rest, but the stubbornness that Arya usually exhibited had not skipped a Stark child. 

“Gendry is alive, then?” She said shakily, head lolling slightly to the side. “I’d wondered what happened to him.” 

“Aye,” he said quietly, feeling her head softly rest against his shoulder. A fond smile worked its way on his face unbidden as she sighed contentedly. “He was the only one with Arya in that damned city. Only one that knows what happened, too, besides her. Both of them won’t say anything about it, though.”

“About what happened to Daenerys and her dragons?” 

“Dragon,” he corrected, remembering yet another hint at how unstable his aunt’s mindset was. To let the Iron Fleet _slip_ her mind, that's what she said... How does one forget about such a thing? “And yes, they’re the only ones that know.”

She was silent for a time so long he thought her asleep. Finally, she turned her head, pressing her forehead into his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, “I’m sorry if her death causes you pain.” 

“Don’t be,” he brought the back of her hand to his mouth, pressing a swift kiss to the soft, warm skin. “It was not her death that held the ability of destroying me.” 

There was pain to be had from Daenerys’ death, but it was the pain of what could have been. Mostly, he felt relief. Relief that he hadn’t had to do it himself, become both kin and queenslayer. And with that relief, came guilt. He’d failed, forcing his young sister, _not even an adult yet,_ to do it. She’d also managed to kill a dragon with only herself and a blacksmith for help, and that was beyond his imagination’s capability.  

She took a stuttered breath in, fingers tightening around his own. “What about Ser Davos?” She said suddenly, her voice awakened with anxiety, “I have not seen him, nor heard anything of his well being. Did he go back with the troops when Daenerys sent them away? Is he here?” 

He exhaled a long, pained breath. Dropping his head back against the rough fabric of the tent, he remembered asking Arya the same questions. “Last I saw him he’d been waiting for me with the troops. He’s not with the troops, and Arya said she never found a body, so our theory is that he’s been taken prisoner.” 

"Jon," she said softly, squeezing his hand. "He’d try to find you, that's why. He wouldn’t believe Daenerys about you taking the Black without talking to you himself. He's a good man. A rare thing.” Pride and respect were laced into her voice, and he felt a soft smile slip onto his face despite the shame he felt for yet another innocent suffering for his stupidity. He'd find Davos, and any wrong done to him would be avenged.

“She played the Game quite well for someone who’s never done it before," she said thoughtfully. 

“I’m sure she had help,” he said bitterly, thinking of her dear advisors. Both of whom were either dead or soon to be. 

“You think Tyrion and Varys knew? About her plan for me."

“Varys I’m sure had some idea… As for Tyrion, I haven't a clue." He sighed, tugging her closer, craving the heat her body provided despite the many layers between them. "But, Daenerys had two of the best players to train her, whether or not she actually _listened_ when advice was given to her."

"We'll get through this," she said, a steely note in her voice despite the exhaustion plaguing them both. "We'll fight this battle, and then we'll rebuild our home, _again_. And if another enemy comes to our gates, we'll fight them, too. _Together_."

He crushed her hand in both of his, thinking of how he'd been a similar position only hours earlier as she lay in that small cot. He'd counted every breath she took, and thanked the gods each time her chest rose and fell. She was _alive_ , and he'd nearly accepted having to watch her die.

 _Together_ , he thought, an odd mixture of hope and longing twisting his insides,  _together._ The word wouldn't stop repeating in his mind.

She fell asleep with her head still on his shoulder, breaths evening out as her body relaxed. He allowed himself the luxury of resting his head against hers, relishing in the softness of her hair and skin under his own. 

When he finally drifted off, feeling a peace descend over him that he'd not felt in too long, the same word still echoed inside him, sending tremors from his toes to the crown of his head.

_Together._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I was/am really nervous about posting this chapter because of the Sandor POV. I'm not sure how well I handled it, but I tried my best!


	6. Three Ravens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They had yet to broach the topic of utmost importance. Sansa would amend that, and quench her curiosity's thirst, as well as Arya's cautions. Stopping, she turned and appraised her face, eyes squinting skeptically. She would not miss a single detail, especially if she was the only one that Yara would talk to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a bit longer than I expected. I was off celebrating my birthday with family and then had my friends crash at my place!
> 
> Hope you enjoy : )

The river was teeth-gnashingly cold, destroying any semblance of sleep that still lingered in her mind. She'd rather shiver for an hour than spend gods knew how long all grimy until a tub could be procured. She still had to wear the Southern dress, of which Arya had graciously provided three more. She didn't want to know where they had come from, how Arya found them, and most especially _who_ they once belonged to.

She continued to scrub mercilessly at her skin, determined to scrape off every newly added unwanted touch, as well as the film from riding for a fortnight. She did not, however, touch her face, the cuts still dully throbbing, save for a couple gentle splashes to at least rid her of the feeling of uncleanliness. 

Brienne stood on the shore, turning in different directions every few moments to look out for any leering men or patrolling enemies. Her presence was grounding, reminding Sansa of who she was, even if her mind and body were still catching up to _where_. Feeling her fists clench, she tried to stave off the dark turns her mind started to make. 

There was still so much left to process, and so many questions unanswered. She hadn't been herself yesterday, growing more hysterical with each new bit of information instead of thinking through the answers she already had. She'd felt insane, clawing at the tent for support. The weight of everything had come crashing down on her. From the first rock, Jon's raven signed "Warden of the North," to the other mountains and boulders heaped on her back as time wore on. She'd finally crumpled from the sheer weight of it.

Taking Jon's comfort had been a necessity, a sweet respite from her raging thoughts and emotions. She'd nearly died, for the gods sake! There were too many bits and pieces to think through, taking his hand and sleeping by his side had been a weakness borne from her overburdened mind. Otherwise, she would not have allowed herself to give in. Ever.

She'd woken up blissfully happy, nestled into his side. Despite being in such an uncomfortable position, she'd been incandescent to wake up beside him and see the peace on his face that only the deepest of rests could give. Then the previous weeks had come crashing down on her, and her happiness had been torn to shreds of fury. She was furious at herself for her weakness, furious at _him_ for his stupidity. She had returned to the needy and emotional girl she'd once been at thirteen, stripped bare by her barely escaped execution. She'd latched on to Jon because she'd been afraid, and so sure she was going to die. That was all. And why shouldn't she have desired to have him near?

 _Because of Petyr's last laugh at my expense._ Daenerys was indeed beautiful, and just as Lord Baelish had predicted, Jon had wished to marry the silver dragon. 

_Had he, though?_

She really couldn't tell. He hadn't explicitly said he'd wanted to marry her, nor had he confessed to loving her when asked... Gods, she didn't know. She'd let her love for him blind her senses, muddling any conclusion she might come to.

However, there was _one_ thing she knew for certain. He'd chosen his Dragon Queen over h- the North, and even when confronted with Daenerys' true nature, something he'd been warned about not only from her but from _Arya_ , he'd still tried to make _her_ bend the knee. Was he really so sure of his choices? Or was he too prideful to admit he was wrong, even when she was sentenced to die? Either way, she now realized that the only King she'd sworn herself to, and the last, was not the man she had trusted.

_We need to trust each other._

_Do you have any faith in me at all?_

Her hand dove beneath the surface and found a smooth rock. She turned it over several times, studying it.

Even still, she trusted him, had faith in him. With all that he had done, she could still look at him and feel he was the only man she'd ever truly trust. What kind of spell was she under? She was not so naive to think she had no blame in this, she just wished _he'd talked_ to her. Yes, assuming she was under a spell was much less painful than coming to terms with the fact that she'd bared her heart to him, and like many before, he had dismissed it, _crushed_ it. And she still loved him.

Tightening her hand around the rock, she hurled it into the distance with a primal screech, ignoring how short a distance it went. She'd allow herself these last few moments of much-needed insanity, and then place her mind into that impenetrable box that cut off her heart and soul.

She'd never asked him if _he_ trusted _her_. Each time he asked, he was reassured of exactly how she felt, of her confidence in him, and yet not once had she asked the same courtesy of him. Assuming that he reciprocated, she'd never needed reassurance. She now knew she should have. When had he truly listened to her? Yes, he'd given the North over to her, and the overwhelming desire to serve her country and make him proud had turned her away from analyzing any motive he may have had for entrusting her with it. A part of her now wondered if he'd just been trying to appease her, make her agreeable to his way of thinking by blinding her with responsibility. _He_ was the one who had sounded nearly mocking for the mere suggestion of him heeding her advice. 

 _And how should I be better, by listening to_ you?

No, it should seem that he had never truly trusted her, nor thought highly enough of her to listen to simple pieces of advice.

_Don't do what he wants you to do._

He'd gone off and nearly gotten himself killed, with Rickon _still_ dying in the process. It was only Davos' early command that had saved Jon from being trampled by the Bolton's horses. 

_You have to be smarter than father, smarter than Robb._

He'd fallen in love with Daenerys, and completely forgotten about his family. He'd only bothered to write one bloody letter to her, simply informing her of his actions... 

One moment, it seemed like he actually held her thoughts in high regard, and the next, when it mattered most, his intellect was the only reliable one to fall on. The man was a contradiction of himself. Soft eyes. Deadly edges. One moment looking to his Dragon Queen with adoration, the next looking at her with _that look_ in his eyes that made her feel- _something_.

She hadn't asked the important questions last night, when her world was still spinning and her heart had felt shattered. They would be having words again, whether he liked it or not.

There must be some part of her that wouldn't give up on it, for how could she be battered and broken by so many men, and still crave love? But it was not just any love she craved, it was his. She knew she had it, in some form, but the kind of love he bore her was unknown. He didn't love her like he loved Arya, she'd take even that, and he didn't love her like he loved his dear Queen. Gods, he'd been so starved that he fell in love with the _first woman_ he encountered that wasn't her. 

_Where do I fit in your heart, Jon? Because you've dominated mine, as well as my damned thoughts._

She loved Arya, their relationship growing anew from the remains of what once was. Perhaps that would be enough, and she could stop causing herself this pain. 

Still scrubbing at her arms and slowly making her way down, she flinched as her fingers caught on a barely healed scab on the curve of her hip, shaped in a crescent moon. No doubt a fingernail that had caught on her skin as she was dragged about. Perhaps when they'd thrown her on a horse? Blood pooled for a moment, a spot of crimson beading on her ivory skin. She stilled, transfixed. Red on white. Blood on snow. It overflowed, the droplet mixing with the river water stuck to her abdomen, and ran down into the black depths of the rushes. 

Her thoughts turned to Ghost, with his red eyes and white coat, and how he'd tried to lead Tormund back to Winterfell. She knew of the advanced thinking direwolves had, Lady had been such a smart girl after all, but surely even heightened senses couldn't have caused the wolf to be so perceptive? 

If she could just talk to Bran, there would be some sort of explanation for this mess. She'd pry it out of him, if need be. Why had he not said something, _anything?_ Just a word might have spared yet another battle, all this _pain_. Daenerys could have had her prince, and the prince his Queen. There would have been ballads sung in their honor, a dragon hidden in furs joined to his Dragon Queen. It was the sort of tale she imagined she'd have loved as a child, and it disgusted her.

Maybe she could have settled being the Lady of Winterfell, with the source of most of her pain far away where he'd be happy without his cold, stoned faced sister-cousin around to make him miserable. No, she couldn't have lived with herself if she had allowed Daenerys to be Queen over the North, let alone leave Jon in her clutches. But perhaps everything truly came down to beauty and power, which seemed to bend knees and cripple spines. Daenerys had both, and Jon did not disappoint history's ruling of men faced with beautiful women. If there was a fool to blame, it was she who had thought him different.

At this moment, it mattered not. If she were to make it back North, she would do whatever it took to keep the promise to herself of never returning South again. Starks hardly ever lasted long down here, either getting themselves burned or beheaded. Yet she'd managed, and so had Arya. Sansa had faces of her own to match her sister's. Sansa Stark, Little Dove, Little Bird, Sansa Lannister, Alayne Stone, Sansa  _Bolton_... She'd survived because of it, wearing dresses like they were armor and using words as her shield and sword. She'd lived and now bore the scars to prove it.  

She'd wear the face of Sansa Stark for the rest of her life, even if that meant being exposed and ripped apart by her foes. She would speak what she must, although she would do it not with the desires of another on her mind ever again, but for the benefit of her people. For the North. She was not the girl she had once been, terrified and clutching at any lifeline offered. She would fall and be brought low, just as a man would. Then, she would stand up and wipe off the dust, continuing on with her new scars to show where she had been and what she survived.

Wading out of the river, rivulets of water ran and pooled around her bare feet as she stepped out. She shivered after her hair emptied itself of the frigid water down her spine, the auburn tresses already beginning to curl from the heat. How was the water so cold, and the air so hot? She hated it here, and wondered how she'd ever lusted after the Capitol over the steady Winter Winds of the North.

Snow. She missed _snow_.

Her beloved Knight averted her eyes when she made her way over, handing the dress and shift to Sansa silently. Brienne made no mention of Sansa's odd behavior and sounds, and she loved her all the more for it.

The dress was a new one. Blue, like her Tully eyes, with grey trim around the bodice and hem that warmed her chilling thoughts. Not caring about drying her skin, she pulled it on and tightened the simple laces over her shift, craving the familiar constriction around her chest. Taking a breath to settle her thoughts, she beckoned for her Lady Knight to follow her.

Making their way back to camp, Sansa prepared herself for coming face to face with Theon's sister. They would be drawing up battle plans as a group, or at least a semblance of a plan, and she was ready to help in any way she could. Her armor was fully intact now, skirts and laces in place of jerkins and armguards. Building herself into that iron box, she fortified her heart, steeled her soul. She squared her shoulders and straightened her spine, hands flexing in anticipation. She was the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa Stark, the Red Wolf. She would fight for what was hers, and no one would take it from her while she still drew breath.

~

Yara had found her before she made it two steps into camp.

"Did he die clean?" She said in lew of any sort of greeting. Sansa found she preferred it.

The woman had a sort of grating voice. It was unusual, like she hadn't spoken for weeks, but not altogether unpleasant. 

"I wasn't there when it happened, but I was told that it was quick, and he died defending Bran," she would make no mention of how his death could have been prevented, had he not gone after the Night King. If he'd only held on mere minutes more. But, it would only serve to harm them both to dwell on what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. 

She supposed that they were the only people left to love Theon Greyjoy, now walking side by side resolutely in tense silence while Brienne melted into her peripheral. Lady Yara had a formidable aura, and Sansa surmised there was not much that a man could do that Yara could not do as well. Her mouth seemed to be turned down in a permanent scowl, as if she'd just tasted something foul. Perhaps she still tasted the salt from the seas that she smelled so heavily of. Oddly, Sansa rather liked the stoic woman and her presence.  She found herself hoping she would not have to look at her from the opposite side of a battlefield. She could imagine them becoming acquaintances, sharing whatever stories they might have of their brother together.

They had yet to broach the topic of utmost importance. Sansa would amend that, and quench her curiosity's thirst, as well as Arya's cautions. Stopping, she turned and appraised her face, eyes squinting skeptically. She would not miss a single detail, especially if she was the only one that Yara would talk to. 

"You supported Daenerys," she began, eyes still scanning Yara's face. The woman remained stoic, _not even a flinch or twitch._ "Why are you here?" She said, louder this time. "You must know that we now oppose any forces that were under her command, and who still serve in memory of her." 

"Yes, I swore myself to her. But she's dead, and she was never my Queen." Yara's lip curled, like she'd swallowed spoiled milk. 

_What was that supposed to mean?_

She stood stalk still, muscles taut with tension and impatience. They remained that way, staring at one another in stubborn silence. Finally, Sansa's brow seemed to raise of its own accord, prompting the woman to continue. 

"I was promised to be Queen of the Iron Islands, so that my people could be free. I was an ally, an equal to her, or so I thought. She left me as well as the Dornish Snakes to die, her _allies_. My confidence in her had been shaken when Theon told me she hadn't even thought twice on abandoning us, and once I heard from him about what she'd done to the North, how she refused to let you keep it independent, took Snow's sovereignty from him, it started to become clear that the Iron Islands wouldn't last long while she ruled the rest of Westeros."

"I didn't tell Theon these things, how did he know?" Who could possibly have told him? 

"I heard from others, not just Theon. Three ravens, only days apart," she said simply.

"Three ravens?" She repeated incredulously, "Who sent the other two?" 

She didn't know of any ravens carrying information so treasonous, nor had she sent any in the past weeks of any note. She ran through any and all possibilities. She knew of the letter that Theon sent before the battle, but other than that she couldn't think of anyone else sending letters to Yara Greyjoy about the North.

The salty woman's face grew wistful, "The first was from Theon. The second from the Spider about supporting the true heir to the Throne, and the third from your odd little brother. Glad Theon didn't manage to kill that freaky bastard. Cryptic as your brother was, it was like the last piece of the puzzle falling into place. The missing bits that were left out of Varys and Theon's letters." 

Sansa's mouth had fallen open slightly, incomprehensible noises escaping throughout before she snapped it shut. So, Bran had managed to send a raven capable of swaying this headstrong woman, but couldn't bother himself to breathe a word to any of them?!

"Do you still have Bran's?" She croaked, hand coming up to clasp around her throat. She could easily guess all that Varys' contained, and Theon had already told her a majority of what he'd written. Bran was what mattered. She needed to know, had the boy she once knew died, his body now serving as a shell for this detached Three-Eyed-Raven to inhabit?

Hearing approaching steps behind them, Sansa didn't need to turn to know who it was. The swift, purposeful gait was one she could recognize in her sleep, as well as the concerned gaze boring heatedly into the back of her head. She didn't spare him a look, not daring to break eye contact for fear of losing the moment, as well as giving into that petty part of her heart that had seemingly survived. _He deserves it._

They were still staring at each other when she heard him pass by.

 _Good_.

Yara broke first, pursing her lips and giving a minuscule shake of her head. "I think I've already told you too much just by mentioning he sent a raven. I was informed to keep the contents to myself, and share only the sparsest details with you, and _only_ you."

When Sansa started, she simply held up a gloved hand.

"Don't ask me why, Lady Sansa. I don't know the boy, and I don't think I want to. I'm a sailor, and I know when to listen to my gut. His wishes will be carried out, and I will not undermine these forces of yours. You have what I can offer, I only ask one thing in return-"

"On my name as a Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn Stark," her voice rose an octave, whether from nerves or anticipation she didn't know, "The Iron Islands will become an independent kingdom, with you as its Queen so long as you help us eradicate the enemies of Westeros." 

"Now that Daenerys is dead, don't believe I'm dishonoring the Greyjoy name by doing this," Yara grunted, stepping forward so she was facing Sansa. She inclined her head, something akin to warmth slightly thawing the storm in her eyes. 

"On my name as a Greyjoy, daughter of Balon Greyjoy and sister to Theon Greyjoy, I swear an alliance with the Stark forces to eradicate the enemies of Westeros." She lifted her arm, hand extended too close to Sansa's body to shake.

 _Ah, we're meant to clasp arms, as men do._ She found she rather liked the idea of it.  

Bringing her arm up to copy Yara's, they clasped and shook once, never breaking their eyes from one another.

"It's settled then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, my writing is like 10x better at 3 in the morning... At least, it is to me.
> 
> Also, I couldn't help including "salty woman," in there because I crack myself up with my terrible and unoriginal puns.
> 
> Next chapter, we've got one of those recurring hot and heavy arguments between Podrick and Sam. You guys know how those two gooses are always quarreling in those tents or secluded rooms, looking at each other intensely, usually while panting and there is a candlelit setting to encourage their charged mood. #ShipPamForever


	7. Slashed Backs, Shredded Hearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry! This took so freakin long... I finished the final draft (which I had made a ton of edits to) and then forgot to save. I come back like 15 flippin minutes later and MY COMPUTER HAD RESTARTED. I'm also in the process of moving to Scotland and haven't had time to sit down and write a lot! Fear not, I've been spending all my other time packing and filling out the plotline in my head. 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy this chapter consisting of Sansa having talks with a gruff bedridden warrior and a yet again caught off guard socially inept man who can't seem to catch a break with his lady love........
> 
>  _I'm_ not even sure who I meant by that. Could be Gendry, could be Tormund, could be... Well, I'll let you find out.

Pain.

Gods, that was all he could feel. Pain, pain, and then some more pain coupled with agony. 

Groaning, he attempted to open his eyes, wanting to find some sort of liquid. His throat felt like a cat's tongue, and the groans pulled from him came out crackled and dry. 

"Water," he rasped, fingers fumbling by his sides feebly. Just those tiny movements caused a hiss to rattle through his teeth. Flashes of the Dothraki screamers and their blades ascending on him passed through his mind's eye. He had long forgone his steel armor and canine helm, and had only donned the boiled leather that he possessed that day, however long ago it was now. The arakhs had made quick work of it, and he could feel the slices all over his body. His torso felt like a fucking fish, like he'd been cut gills... Why hadn't they just chopped his head off for good measure, as he'd so intended when barreling toward them? Perhaps the Tarth wench- 

Suddenly, a soft hand was cradling his head, and a cup was pressed to his lips. Opening his mouth, he drank the water greedily as loud slurps filled the room he was in. It was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted, it spilled from the cup and ran down his sternum, leaving behind an icy chill like death's embrace. 

"Slow down, or you'll make yourself sick," she scolded.

He froze. The cup was taken from his lips as a soft sound indicated she had placed it beside his head. Her voice was no longer that of the young girl he'd once known, it had deepened into a woman's voice, and with it, she'd grown into a woman's body. It pleased him to know she had made it out of King's Landing alive yet again, although she no doubt carried new scars, whether it be physical or mental; she carried maddening amounts of both.

He forced his eyes to pry apart if only so he could get a glimpse of her familiar yet so very changed face.

He'd forgotten how badly they'd treated her. 

The ghastly purple and blue bruises he remembered on her jaw had faded to a pale green, making her look slightly sick in the limited light. The slices had scabbed, while some seemed to have healed completely. She had deep shadows under her focused eyes, and a crease was formed between her copper brows.

How long had he lain here? And where exactly _was_ here? 

He was in a tent, not a room like he'd previously thought, which led him to believe that he was in the camp he'd briefly viewed the makings of before setting out to wait with Tarth and the Payne boy.

"How-" he swallowed, trying to wet his lips but finding his tongue dry. "How long?"

"Not too long," she answered quietly. "Nearly three days." She went silent then, regarding him with those piercing eyes he still found unsettling. So different, so lovely.

"The battle's been won, then?" He didn't imagine the dragon woman's men would sit and twiddle their thumbs if Arya's plan had come to fruition.

"Not yet," she said, a bitter edge to her normally reserved monotone. "Without their Queen or Commander, they've taken to slaughtering and pillaging nearby villages. We've been able to intercept most of them and wipe out any that got past us. We had thought-" She broke off, looking down at her hands like they held the answers to all her questions.

"Thought what?" He croaked. He was quickly tiring of prompting her to continue speaking.

Her mouth pinched into a frown he could only describe as _angry_. Raising his brows, he nearly asked why. As quickly as it happened, it was gone, and she was back to Lady Sansa of Winterfell, shutting down any questions he might force himself to ask.

"We have good reason to believe Daenerys hid a good portion of her forces, _nearly half_ , from the North." Her fingers seemed to tighten around her light skirts, and Sandor noticed with shock that she wore a dress not so different from the ones he'd seen her in last time they were both down South. "The amount we've defeated has far surpassed the amount she claimed to have."

Silence fell over them both for an unknown amount of time. He was equal parts shocked and furious. Hadn't the dragon bitch fancied herself with the White Wolf of the North? Why would she lie, then? Damn it, this wasn't his job, pondering over the why's and how's, but he'd been taken out of the line of battle, and now couldn't do much at all always- 

"Why did you do it?" 

His eyes flashed to hers, the same questioning look dancing in her eyes that he'd seen that night of the Celebration Feast.

"I've done a lot of things, Little Bird." _Most of them done on other people's orders._ Hopefully, he had time to remedy that. 

"You and Arya left Winterfell with the intention of killing Cersei and the Mountain. You both turned back."

Well, and that was an obvious answer. One he was sure she knew the answer to. Yet, she clearly wished for him to voice it.

Motioning to the water, he wet his mouth with it before settling back down. "You know why," he rumbled. He wasn't good at speaking, most especially about his reasonings. He did the things _he_ wanted to now, and fuck anyone who wanted an explanation for it.

He decided to turn it back on her. 

"Did you really think we wouldn't, after hearing what happened to you?"

She took a measured breath, pursing her lips and leaning back.

"We've all changed since we last saw each other," she stated coldly. "We all have different things driving us now. I knew better than to hope you would help me."

She got up with the mumbled excuse of letting him rest, walking out of the tent a tad too fast to be considered calm. He was left in silence with the ominous feeling that while she may have been talking to him, the words she spoke weren't meant for his ears. 

****

She had a way with people, soldiers most especially, that astounded him.

No one in her path was neglected. Every time she stopped, each face she inevitably moved on from was considerably brighter than before. Brienne and Podrick flanked her at all times, but truly, Jon would bet money against the odds of any Northmen, Vale guard, or even Ironborn turning against her. She was a Stark, and the Northmen respected that, revered it. She had Yohn Royce's respect, therefore she had the Vale's. She and Yara got on well, to the shock of everyone, including himself, and the scant Ironborn backed their Queen. 

She might think she wasn't being obvious, and perhaps she wasn't and he was simply overreacting, but she seemed to be avoiding him. Maybe it was just that he'd let himself too loose, and he craved her presence selfishly, despite the circumstance that Westeros was teetering on the edge of a blade. He decided it was the Targaryen in him that would watch the world burn without a care, as long as she might look him in the eyes again. 

Lord Royce joined her, and she seemed to be discussing plans and giving orders, all of this being done whilst still moving around the small square. Her face hadn't even fully healed, yet here she was, naturally falling into a position she was born to hold. He couldn't help the sigh of appreciation that escaped him as she turned with a swirl of her skirts to speak with a passing squire. She was a sight to behold. This truly was where she belonged, with people who respected her.

Honored her.

He'd never in his life seen a Lady, or _Queen_ , for that matter, walk amongst her troops and see firsthand what orders needed to be given. Daenerys had always left the walking to Grey Worm, who brought her the information she needed, and then she passed her orders. Jon supposed that it kept a sort of barrier between her and her men, which seemed to be what most monarchs did. It made the scant encounters with them seem more special. But, there was something truly inspiring about having a leader walk among the crowds and having the reassurance that they truly saw what needed to be done, not have the information passed to them.   

The sun hit her then, and the sight was staggering. He'd never seen her in the sun until three days ago, they'd only ever been in the snowy lands of the North, which complemented her beauty just as well. Although, if he was to give it conscious thought, he preferred seeing her with the beautiful backdrop of white. It brought out the stark colors of her and accentuated the glint of her icy eyes. Nonetheless, the sun truly brought out what the snow could not. Her auburn tresses had streaks of gold brought out by the rays, and her skin had a lovely flush brought on by the heat. He wasn't the only one staring either, and anger swelled up within him as soldiers glanced appreciatively at her, even Lord Royce seemed to linger his eyes on her hair. He clenched his burning hands into fists, images of pummeling men flashing through his mind. 

_What have I become, to scorn myself for one sin, yet so intensely desire another?_

He could imagine them lounging under a tree far away from their enemies, the sun flickering through the leaves and casting uneven shapes across their blissful faces, turning her hair red and gold. Ghost was laying by their feet as she sang for them, her hand carding through his hair as he drifted off with his head in her lap.

Despite it being nothing more than a fantasy, he would carry it next to his heart like a cherished memory.

Is this what Sansa looked like when he left the North in her hands? She'd done it all while simultaneously balancing his lack of communication and that slimy prick he'd foolishly left behind for her to manage. Gods, what he would give to go back and be there with her, even simply watch her. If she'd required anything of him, he'd have given it, but the way she moved so assuredly gave him the feeling he wouldn't be much help. 

Nonetheless, he could still see if she needed-

Someone was speaking to him, _rather impatiently._ Snapping his eyes to the suddenly materialized Ser Brienne, he stared blankly while trying to recall what the woman had said. _  
_

"-and the Lady Sansa wishes your opinion on the matter."

He cringed. Not only had he no clue what this matter was, but it should also seem that Sansa possessed eyes in the back of her pretty red head and had caught him staring. At the very least, she'd known he was here, doing nothing.

"I'll speak with her myself," he said gruffly, stalking off in the direction she'd disappeared in, not bothering with a farewell to the now silent Knight.

He didn't hear any following footsteps, and Jon nearly sighed in relief. He was glad to be left alone for a few moments to clear his head before speaking to her.

Brienne, it should seem, had other ideas, much to Jon's chagrin.

"Pardon me," she said, sounding like she truly couldn't care if she was pardoned. Jon didn't miss that she hadn't bothered to worry over a title that people constantly fretted about, either. 

Jon continued to walk, hoping that whatever it was that needed to be said would be done quickly. Suddenly, his arm was in a vice-like grip, and he grit his teeth. If she were anyone else, his fist would have already connected with their face, he was in no mood to be tested. But, Brienne was Sansa's shield, and, it should seem, her friend. He wouldn't harm her, and if he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure he could unless it was by surprise. Begrudgingly, he raised his eyes to her clear blues.  

"Who are you to the North?" Brienne demanded in a hard voice, her mouth turned down in a familiar grim line.

Shock coursed through him at her words, which she had no place speaking. It was a good question, one that desperately needed answering. It was one that Jon had asked himself many times since finding out who his sire was. Snow, Stark, Targaryen? Bastard, King, Commander? Sighing, he dropped his eyes to the worn boots he'd donned this morning. If he wore them much longer, his biggest toes would pop out of the ends. Swallowing down his pride, he tilted his head back.

"I don't know."

Thinking their conversation well and truly done, he wrenched his arm from her grasp and continued on his way. Once again, she spoke out, stopping Jon's feet far more effectively than any grip could.

She spoke lowly, and he barely caught her words over the clamber and clashing of the camp. "And what are you to her? Most importantly, what is she to _you?"_

Turning slowly, like a predator that caught the scent of its prey, he practically snarled at the poor woman. _"We're family,"_ he seethed, taking a menacing step forward. He was through with all this. "Are you done?"

He didn't bother waiting for an answer. With one last scathing look, he turned and stalked away. He'd lost sight of Sansa, but he continued on in the direction he last saw her in the hopes of seeing a flash of red hair.

He passed Gendry, sitting alone on a small stool. He seemed to be cradling a medium-sized blade in his hands like it was the most of delicate glass, and Jon nearly stopped to ask after the unreadable look in his downcast eyes. Shaking himself, he turned and charged down the path he set for himself. He had a goal, and he would reach it, no matter how many times he was stopped. 

****

By the time he'd made it to her tent, night had fallen for some time.

He'd been stopped by Tormund, Sam, Arya, Podrick, and surprisingly, Yara, as well as a number of soldiers. The last soldier to stop him, barely a man, had merely asked for the directions to the blacksmith. The poor lad had scampered away at Jon's furious look, and he'd immediately regretted letting his temper flare. Everyone was still getting used to him being here, and his anger could not rear its head whilst he was still trying to maintain peace. The Northmen had never been _warm,_ however, whatever semblance of warmth before had been replaced by the biting winds of the North. Everyone knew of his blood now, Targaryen scum. They were skeptical at best, hostile at worst, and he wasn't sure where he stood to Westeros, so it was no surprise that everyone wasn't sure what to do around him. 

Yesterday, they'd addressed most of the troops before cutting off another raiding party. It was the only time Sansa had willingly stood by his side since that night she'd rested her head against his shoulder, and then the morning after withdrawn into a cold shell. Jon didn't know where he would stand after all this, but for now, he was fighting Westeros' enemies, and that was all that mattered. There hadn't been a lot of complaints from the men, surprisingly, and Jon silently thanked Sansa for keeping the fire alive in their men, while he could not. They didn't trust him, that was rightly deserved, and they trusted Sansa, who had never stopped fighting for them.

Now that Daenerys was well and truly dead, he'd given himself sparse moments to think about his decisions, and each time he grew more furious with himself. He wasn't a fool, he knew that, but the choices he made were truly that of a simpleton. _Sansa would have done a much better job,_ he thought. _Obviously_. 

But, she too had been blinded by keeping Northern independence, just as he had been solely focused on taking care of the dead. He grit his teeth. Together, they could have solved both of these problems, somehow. But, he'd been so afraid of having her get caught up in the many threads he'd tied around his neck, forming a noose he himself had strung.

Taking an encouraging breath, he flexed his sword hand nervously before lightly rapping his knuckles against the thin post that the flaps of her tent were tied to. He waited a moment, before taking a step back and dropping his eyes to the ground. He knew she was in there, the candles were lit, and he could faintly see her silhouette. She was hunched on her bed, and it looked like her head was in her hands. She probably knew it was him, and he wouldn't be surprised if she tried to wait him out. She would be disappointed, she may be stubborn, but so was he. 

Stepping back toward the tent, he clenched his jaw and made up his mind.

"Sansa," he called softly, checking his surroundings and coming up satisfied at their near privacy, save Podrick who was several paces away. "I'm sorry it's late. Brienne told me you had a question?"

A slight lie, but there was truth to it. _How does that discount a lie? Stop trying to justify yourself._

He nearly stumbled back when she wrenched the flap open and fixed him with a furious glare. Gods, her eyes were beautiful. Her hair was tied back in a fashion he'd never seen on her, tied at the nape of her neck while small tendrils escaped and framed her face in licking flames. 

"That was hours ago," she snapped, blocking the entrance to her tent.

He grimaced, rubbing his index and thumb together while he struggled to keep his voice even. "I know. Could we talk?" 

"We're already doing that." 

_"Sansa."_

She gave an exasperated sigh, then they stood in tense silence, neither breaking their eyes from the other. _Stubborn wolf,_ he growled internally, fighting the fondness twisting his insides. At least she was looking at him.

Finally, she stepped aside with a huff, and he practically bolted inside before she could change her mind.

The change in setting was painfully familiar, yet so very different. She'd added another chair, and there was a candle lit on the stool by her bedside as well as another on the small table next to him. The space was intimately small, and the planes of her face made soft by the candlelight didn't help the nervous beating of his heart. 

He took a seat without being prompted, nearly throwing himself into it, and she primly took the other. The bed separated them, and he tried very hard not to look at it, nor think about it. _The bed doesn't exist, Jon._

He could feel her looking at him, clearly annoyed at his silence after he'd insisted they talk. He didn't want to fight with her, but, knowing Sansa, and knowing himself, Podrick was going to have an uncomfortable time listening to them outside. 

He sent a silent apology to Podrick before taking a deep breath of courage.

"Why have you-"

****

 

"-been avoiding me?"

Sansa tensed. She'd been careful to busy herself, how could he have known that? She hadn't been _that_ obvious, she'd been working, and they'd attended all the same meetings and plannings.

 _Assuming_ , that's what he was doing. 

_Well, I'm going to make an ass out of you. Oh wait, I don't have to do that, you've already done it for me._

"Why would you think that?" She said carefully, turning to look at the flickering light of the candle.

"Don't do that," he snapped.

"Do what?" She replied, adding a tone of innocence just to see if it would rile him.

"You know what! We both know you've been avoiding me, sending other people to ask me questions instead of just _talking_ to me!"

Snapping her eyes to him, she bared her teeth. "And why should I? _I don't know you._  I don't recognize you! The Jon I knew wouldn't have done what you have. Given up our home, bent the knee, acted like a fool!" She stopped, her nails digging into her palms. "Lied to his family," she whispered.

He sat back, shock washing over his softened features. Shock, sadness, guilt. She fought off the sympathy that urged her fingers to reach out to him. She didn't know this man who wore Jon's face, and she shouldn't allow herself these weaknesses. 

It was silent for a time before a broken whisper filled the space between them.

"You're right," he sighed, wiping his mouth roughly. "You shouldn't have to talk to me, or even look at me. This, _all of this,_ is my fault. The position I put you in- I-" he broke off, clenching his eyes and mouth shut and faintly shaking his head. "I didn't know what to do, and yet, it felt like I was the only one who could possibly do anything. If choices were to be made, they needed to be mine and mine alone, so no blame could be put on another. She wouldn't listen to anyone but me, and even then, my 'counsel' was optional at best."

"What about the pack?" She asked coldly. "What happened to your pack? You _knew_ you had m- us to help you with whatever you needed, you've _always_ had us, and yet you so quickly set us aside for your Dragon Queen." 

"She wasn't mine!" He suddenly roared, kicking back his chair with a clamor. It smacked into the soft walls of her tent, and she worried it would rip. She could've sworn she heard Podrick inhale sharply outside. 

Swinging her eyes back to Jon, Sansa fought the urge to shy away from him. She wasn't sure she'd ever heard him speak this way before, and he looked like a rabid wolf now, panting with his darkly furious eyes.

She stood wordlessly, smoothing her skirts in an attempt to calm herself and then striding outside in search the darkened paths for the familiar sight of Podrick. Quickly making her way over once she spotted him, she tried to make herself look unaffected. Collected. 

"I'll send for you after this, Podrick," she said, satisfied that her voice came out even. "Make sure no one disturbs us, please." Sending what she hoped to be a reassuring smile at him, it was not returned as he silently turned and walked away.

She made her way back to the tent, pursing her lips. _Poor Podrick_.

Slipping back in, she eyed Jon's now hunched form. His hands gripped the back of the chair she'd been sitting in, his head bowed and his lashes lowered. He was achingly familiar to her, and the sight was so intensely intimate that she fought her better judgment of leaving before she made a mistake. She stayed, and slowly approached the end of her bed, the sounds of his breathing sending pimples running across her skin. _Not too close. Don't be a fool._

"You bent the knee, Jon," she said quietly, carefully. "You were _her's_ , and she made that very clear to us all." Pausing, she tried to erase the bitter edge her voice had taken. She turned and sat with a thump at the foot of her cot, placing her head in her hands. "I never doubted you, Jon. That day, on our walls, you said we needed to trust each other. And I did. I trusted you, Jon, I had _faith_ in you. But where was yours in me? When did you ever take my words for what they are? My heart belongs to the North, Jon, and I will die if I have to to protect it in the only way I can. _With my words."_

"I do trust you," he said gently, _too_ gently. "I did listen to you, as much as I could. I tried to keep the North from bending, I truly did, but she wouldn't have it any other way." He sounded desperate, pleading, "If you'd been faced with the choice I was, the choice of letting us all die, letting _you_ die, or giving up independence, which would you choose?! Gods, Sansa, the things I did to ensure the North lived-" he choked, "You'd be disgusted with me."

She threw her hands in the air, her mouth twisting into a snarl as she sprung off the bed and whirled toward him. She faltered for half a second when her eyes landed on him, his hands were twisted into his hair now, his eyes clenched shut. He looked like he was in agonizing pain, and it jolted her into action. She took the two short steps between them and jabbed at his chest with her two front fingers, and his eyes stuttered open to stare at her in shock. "Then just tell me, Jon! I don't want to feel like this, damn it, I want to feel like I know you again! Because every time I look at you, I just see another one of her bloody followers that mooned after her every day and night just like she wanted!"

She could feel his hot breath fanning across her face, sending shivers down her spine all the while maddening her further. Impossibly, he stepped even closer, his voice lowering to a rough undertone. 

"I did not _moon_ over her," he growled, "I used her, Sansa! I knew what she wanted, and I gave it to her all the while feeding her lies. I used a woman's own desires against her, what does that make me? And it seems like it was all for fucking nothing! She made me get proof, and I got it in the hope that it would be enough. But nothing seemed to be enough for her. I gave her the North, I gave her my honor, I gave her _myself_. In return she threatened my home, _my family,_ she held me prisoner for the gods' sake! And now, after _everything_ , it also seems that she hid over half her forces! She claimed to love me, Sansa, and this is what she did to me. I-" he laughed incredulously, "I don't wish to dwell on what she had done to the people she didn't 'love.' And yet, we both know what she did to those who held no place in her heart."

Sansa just stared, mouth slightly agape. "So, y-you didn't know about her forces?" She stammered, the tips of her fingers tingling as she recklessly allowed hope to spark inside her.

"That's all you have to say?" He asked in breathy disbelief, eyes blown wide. His hands twitched toward her, as if he meant to grasp her arms, but he dropped them almost as soon as he raised them, clenching the fingers until his knuckles turned white as Ghost's fur. "Of course I didn't know about the hidden troops, Sansa. I begged her to help us, not hold out! Gods," he ran a hand through his curls, which were coming slightly undone from the tie he had them partially in. She noticed his hands were trembling slightly as well, and that part of her that battled against common sense wished to still his shaking fingers and replace them with her own. "She saw for herself how much we needed help, how much 'her people' needed help, and she hid over half of her forces from us, because it was 'my war.'"

A bolt of pleasure was sent through her at "us," and she quickly dropped her eyes to hide it. It did no good, for anywhere she looked, he was still all she could see. Running her tongue over her chapped lips, she dearly wished she could compose her thoughts. There was almost always something to do to give her time to sort out her thoughts, take a sip from her goblet, fuss with her skirts... But here, standing so close to him that she could see the flecks of grey in his dark eyes, eyes that were now locked on her lips, she could do nothing but let the raging storm of her thoughts run its course. Her cheeks burned as his eyes slowly made their way back to her own, something akin to shame flickering in their depths.

"She was my blood, Sansa, and she played me like a fool. Even seeing her as she was, there were parts of her that I truly thought were good, and I reassured myself that the deal I made with her would be enough." His voice trembled now too, like he was near tears. Betrayal. That was what his voice held.

"Perhaps there were parts of her that were good, but that doesn't mean she was fit to rule. She wasn't your family, Jon. She may share some of your blood, but that doesn't make her family. We're your family, and you needn't be reminded so many times of that anymore. You're still half Stark, the same as the rest of us."

When had they gotten so quiet? Moments like these with him always made her head spin. One moment, they were a whirlwind that tore her to her wit's end, and then the next, a calm current that soothed her aching heart. 

Before her mind could focus on other things... She needed to address this one trouble before they inevitably moved on to the hundred other problems that had risen up between them ever since he crossed the gates of Winterfell to leave her, and she prayed it would not break them, break _her_. She had avoided him in the hopes that it would guard her own heart, and now, despite a rational part of her begging her not to proceed, she was about to lay herself down to either be pushed away, or accepted. But what was truly rational or irrational now? She had survived more tyrannical sovereigns than Westeros knew what to do with, and now, she couldn't force herself to keep this man away from her, despite all that had happened.

"Jon?"

His eyes snapped back to her, a soft fondness in them that melted her resolve of being detached. There was no way she could watch him walk out of this tent without the part of her heart that held him close breaking, and it frightened her so much so that with it rose fury so acute she quivered. 

"I broke my oath to you," she rushed out. "I swear to you, for what little it's worth now, I did it with the intention of keeping you safe. I'm sorry. I truly am." She bit her bottom lip, her teeth nearly gnashing into the soft flesh.

"Tyrion-" Jon's eyes flashed, and Sansa faltered while storing the sight away to enquire about later, "The reason I told him... I-I hadn't planned on telling anyone, but when I talked to him, he... Jon, he looked so _afraid_. Tyrion and I both knew Joffery for what he was, hells, Cersei was his _sister_ , yet I'd never seen such fear in his eyes in any of the dealings between them that I witnessed. I'd seen the kind of woman she was myself, and then, to see how frightened he was because of her, gods, I panicked. I couldn't bear the thought of sending you down South with her when she held your life in her hands so critically, not after what happened to father, mother, Robb..." Her voice had risen in power and pitch, driven by her need for him to understand. "It wasn't only for you, Jon. Westeros needs to heal, and no one could have healed with her for a ruler. It was an impossible position for you, I know that and _I'm sorry,_ it's only that I felt I had no other-"

He placed a warm, calloused hand on her cheek, and the gentle care he took to mind her bruises shut off her thoughts as if he'd said "Quiet," out loud.

His longest finger hooked around the lobe of her ear, his thumb softly pressing into the skin under the corner of her eye, her lashes brushing against him. His eyes followed the movement of his thumb against her skin as he shifted his hand. Sliding down her jaw, his sigh blew across her face. Drawing small circles on her cheek, her breathing picked up in speed. Finally, it came to rest at the corner of her lip, and Jon's breathing stopped. Her sharp intake of breath that the sensation caused made her toes curl, yet she couldn't look away as his eyes settled on hers. He brought his other hand to her cheek, his fingers sliding into the soft, delicate hairs at the sides of her head. He leaned forward, tilting her head down just the slightest bit, and her stomach seized. In anticipation? Fear? Her heart pounded as he brought his lips to the place just above her brow, and she couldn't even find it within herself to feel disappointment as he murmured against her skin-

"There's nothing to forgive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to continue, but ending there felt right to me. This conversation isn't over, but... I'm not sure either of them can form coherent thoughts right now, lol
> 
> I love making wordplays. "Silent Knight." LMBO
> 
> So, I remember in an interview Kit was in that he said Jon and Brienne don't really get along. I don't recall if he elaborated, but for my purposes Brienne's concern for Sansa covers everyone, and Jon isn't exempt from that, so it pisses him off. They respect each other, and Jon recognizes Brienne's love for Sansa, but their fondness for each other is lacking, ha.  
> I don't know which interview it was in, I believe it was a rather annoying one that he didn't seem to enjoy (it was a "would you rather" type deal, I think, very empty questions)...

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you liked, and what you think I can improve on! I love reading comments, whether they're constructive criticism or just something about what you think!
> 
> Have a great day/afternoon/evening/night, depending on where you are!
> 
> Cheers


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